


Mara's Mercy

by Mottlemoth



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventuring Together, Fantasy AU, Friends to Lovers, Greg Lestrade in Armour, Greg Lestrade to the Rescue, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Medieval AU, Oblivious Boys So In Love, Oh No! Mudcrabs!, Protective Greg, Rampant Feelings, Secrets, Sharing a Bed, Tenderness, True Love, Vulnerable Mycroft, romantic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 06:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 62,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15600453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: [Medieval Fantasy Mystrade] Gregori is on the run from his old life in Cyrodiil—and he could have picked a better place than Skyrim. Captured as a suspected rebel, he faces the headman's axe. A series of staggering events then dramatically alter his fortunes.The quiet town of Falkreath isn't all that it seems, and neither is the Breton bookseller Greg meets on the road. The clever and interesting Mycroft is hiding a secret—but then, so is Greg.As they journey towards Whiterun together, and their friendship grows closer, their secrets must all come to light.





	1. Execution

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive the notes, folks. Just a few things to set out at the start.
> 
> I _think_ I'm the first person to do Mystrade set in the Elder Scrolls universe. (Set me straight if I'm wrong.) This is definitely a Mystrade story first and a Skyrim story second—and if you don't know a thing about Skyrim, that's fine. Neither does Gregori. You'll be in good company. I've tried to write this story with an eye on those readers who haven't encountered that world before, but still want to come along. 
> 
> Here's all you need to know at the start: Magic Norway (known as Skyrim) is a province of Magic Rome (known as the Empire). A group of Nordic rebels known as the Stormcloaks are now trying to take back control of their homeland. The Empire would rather like to hang onto it, thanks.
> 
> (I'm sorry, wincing Elder Scrolls players. There'll be plenty for you here, I promise.)
> 
> This story becomes E-Rated in Chapter 12. There will also be some minor violence, and Gregori swears rather a bit. He's having a tough time.

Fog.

Pine trees. Snow. Dark rock looming all around, the landscape closed and cold. Cartwheels rumbled along the frozen ground. Gregori swayed with it, weary, half-awake. His gaze found its way to a horse, breath clouding as it snorted in the cold, and behind it sat a driver in a grubby mailshirt. The leather helmet was Imperial Army.

Greg would have known it anywhere.

They passed a fallen oak, its hollow carcass splintered and full of snow, and on the road ahead he could make out another cart through the mist. It was full of broken men and women, like him. They were huddled in the blue cuirasses that marked them as rebels, their heads low. They weren't unspeaking.

A voice broke into his thoughts.

"Hey, you... you're finally awake."

The speaker sat across from him in the cart - a rugged Nord, as nordic as they come, dirty blonde with dishevelled braids and blue eyes that matched his rebel colours almost perfectly. His gaze glittered within the dirt on his face.

"You were trying to cross the border, right?" The Nord surveyed Greg with interest. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us... and that thief over there."

That thief over there was the third of four occupants of their cart. He was attired in the same rags as Gregori, his dark hair greased back from his skull; he was twisting uneasily at the binding around his wrists. Greg had to admit he looked like a thief, wiry and pinched. He had the sort of face that had a permanent sneer; it deepened as it turned upon the Nord.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," he muttered, full of dislike and not caring to hide it. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell..."

He glanced across at Gregori.

"You, there. You and me. We shouldn't be here." He glowered at the Nord beside him. "It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

Greg bit into the side of his tongue. He wasn't going to get dragged into this, not when he was bound and in rags in the back of a prison cart - and not when opening his mouth would give away his bloody accent. He'd had enough grief for it already. Political discussion wasn't high on his list of priorities right now.

The Nord gave a snort, darkly amused. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

The driver shouted from the front seat. "Shut up back there!"

Quiet fell for a minute or two. The forest through which they were passing was starting to thin, pale sky breaking through the trees. Gregori wished he was still asleep. At least he hadn't felt the cold when he was asleep.

The thief had taken interest in the fourth occupant of their cart - a gagged man in dark and heavy furs, clearly another native of Skyrim, whose steely glare lifted as he was commented upon.

"What's wrong with him, huh?" the thief said, raising an eyebrow.

"Watch your tongue!" the Nord snapped at him. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true high king."

_What the fuck?_

Greg glanced across at the gagged man.

He didn't look like a king. He looked just like another captured rebel, sullen and defeated.

For a second, the thief clearly didn't believe it either. He then looked again at the gag, at the Imperial prison cart in which they were being transported, and the heavy armour of the soldiers guarding the convoy.

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?" Panic flashed in the young man's eyes. "You're the leader of the rebellion," he realised, staring at the gagged jarl, whose glare didn't leave him for so much as a moment. "If they've captured _you_ \- "

The sneer had vanished in its entirety.

"Oh - gods! Where are they taking us?"

Greg inhaled. _Where indeed._

The blonde Nord gave a huff. "I don't know where we're going," he muttered. "But Sovngarde awaits."

Walls were approaching in the distance - they were coming towards a settlement. The trees had now parted enough for sunlight to find its way between them; the calls of songbirds could be heard on the morning air. Greg found himself listening to them, suddenly caring that they were here. He'd never noticed birdsong before in his life. It never mattered. They were just one more thing he didn't have time to stop and deal with.

_Should've known it would end this way._

He'd been on borrowed time for weeks.

The thief didn't seem so resigned to his fate. He was starting to panic, staring between them as if they didn't understand.

"No - this can't be happening," he said. "This isn't happening."

The Nord gazed at the trees as they passed. "What village are you from, horse thief?"

The thief swallowed. "Why do you care?" he demanded, and his voice shook.

The Nord raised an eyebrow at him. "A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

Gregori wasn't a Nord. He didn't have a home to think of. He looked down at his bound hands, trying to concentrate on the birdsong instead. _If only I'd just bloody left. Gotten back on the horse and gone. Wouldn't be here. Wouldn't be ending like this._

"R-Rorikstead." The thief had turned as pale as the snow banked beside the road. "I'm... I'm from Rorikstead."

They were entering the settlement now.

A guard above the gate called out to the soldiers leading the convoy on horseback.

"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"

"Good," came the reply. "Let's get this over with."

Greg closed his eyes. _Let's,_ he thought. He breathed in as the shadow of the gate swept over his face, too frightened now to pray aloud. _Lady Mara, I lay myself in your hands. In your mercy may I trust. In your perfect love and peace I place my fears._

His weren't the only prayers. As the cart rolled into the settlement, the thief began to gasp the name of every god he could think of.

It wouldn't do him any good.

They were passing timber houses with thick thatched roofs; villagers were gathering in their doors to watch them go by. Pale and silent faces followed their passage - fear, pity, apathy - Greg tried not to look at them. He couldn't bear it. _I was you, once. Just trying to get by._

The Nord opposite him hummed, glancing at the stone towers they were passing.

"This is Helgen," he murmured. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here..." His eyes narrowed with the memories, a smile playing across his mouth. "I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in."

 _Nords,_ Greg thought, biting his cheek. They could be truculent sons of whores when they wanted, but he had to hand it to them - they knew how to die.

"Funny," the Nord said, and shook his head. "When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

_Me too, mate._

_Me too._

They rolled into a courtyard by a central guard tower, where more soldiers were waiting. Imperial flags with the diamond dragon sigil stirred in the thin breeze. Greg remembered the same flags hanging back in Anvil - every shop, every tavern, every market stall. The Empire was the same here in Skyrim as it was back home.

As the wagons slowed, the townsfolk started ordering their children inside.

An Imperial captain in steel armour watched their progress into the square. "Get the prisoners out of the carts!" she called to her men. "Move it!"

In panic, the thief looked around.

"Why are we stopping?" he asked.

The Nord gave him a long look. "Why d'you think?" The cart jolted to a stop. "End of the line."

_Mara, keep me safe. Mara, keep me warm. Mara, bring me home._

_Mara, keep me safe. Mara, keep me warm..._

The guards started filing the prisoners out of the other cart. Their Stormcloak cuirasses were tattered and grubby, but their heads were high. They walked as if they were being led to some honour.

The Nord opposite Gregori, with a stiff breath, rose to his feet.

"Let's go," he said. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

The thief stumbled as he stood. "No - wait - " His eyes flew to Greg, looking for help. "We're not rebels!"

_Lady Mara, I lay myself in your hands -_

Gregori's knees stood for him. He followed the other prisoners down the steps, numb, wishing he could still hear birds.

As the thief tried to take a step back onto the cart, the Nord snorted and gave him a shove.

"Face your death with some courage, thief..."

"You've got to tell them!" the thief gasped, his eyes wild. He didn't understand why they weren't listening. He didn't realise this was the end. _"We weren't with you!_ This is a _mistake!"_

The Imperial captain cast her eye across the crowd of weary prisoners. Beside her, a clean-shaven legionary in uniform stood ready with a heavy book.

"Step towards the block when we call your name," she barked. "One at a time!" - and Greg didn't want to look, but he had to. In the shadow of the tower, their place of execution was ready. Beside a stone block stood a hooded headsman, resting on a two-handed axe. There was scattered hay for the blood, and a robed priestess of Arkay, and this was it. This was the end.

 _Mara, keep me safe. Mara, keep me warm -_  

The Nord at Greg's shoulder made a weary noise. "Empire loves their damn lists..."

The legionary with the book looked down at it, quill in hand.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," he said first, with a guarded glance, "Jarl of Windhelm."

Proud, and silent, the gagged jarl moved away from the carts. His furs dragged behind him across the stone.

"Ralof of Riverwood," came the next name, and the blonde Nord beside Gregori - without comment - followed his jarl.

The legionary crossed him off the list.

"Lokir of Rorikstead," he said.

The thief in front of Gregori gave a violent twitch.

 _"No!"_ he gasped. Greg heard him break. "I'm _not_ a rebel! _You can't do this!"_

He started to run. He pushed past them, his hands still bound, and sprinted in the direction of the gates. Greg's heart clenched.

"Halt!" the captain shouted. The thief didn't stop.

"You're not gonna kill me!" he screamed, and as the command for archers was given, Greg tried to shut his eyes. He couldn't. They were fixed on the thief now running for his life.

Bows were drawn.

Three arrows got him at once. He jerked with a cry, and went down with them lodged into his back, collapsing loose across the snowy ground.

Greg felt the outbreath of the other prisoners as deeply as his own.

"Anyone else feel like running?" the captain asked them all.

Eyes lowered. No sound was made.

"Wait..." The legionary with the book scanned his list, brow furrowing. He glanced up at Gregori. "You. Step forward."

_Fuck._

_Here we go._

Greg's feet moved him forward. He gathered his fingers into his palms, trying to look the soldier in the eye. _I was you, once._

The legionary frowned. "Who are you?"

It had been hours since Greg last spoke. His voice came gravelled and dry from his throat; it was strange to hear himself speak.

"Gregorius," he muttered. His shoulders tensed, fingers curling painfully in their binds. "M'from Anvil. Cyrodiil. Ex-Legion."

The legionary's frown deepened.

 _"Ex-_ Legion?" he noted, suspicious. "What are you doing in Skyrim?"

Gregori said nothing, dropping his eyes. _Might as well be executed as a bloody Stormcloak. Death is death. Die with some dignity._

The legionary permitted his silence.

Whatever he assumed, Greg didn't care.

He turned his eyes to the woman beside him, uncertain. "Captain... what should we do? He's not on the list."

His captain wasn't moved in the slightest.

"Forget the list," she said. "He goes to the block."

"By your orders, captain." The legionary turned his eyes to Gregori. "I'm sorry," he said, and Greg raised a wry eyebrow. "We'll make sure your remains are returned to Cyrodiil."

_Sure, mate. Just dump 'em across the border somewhere._

"Follow the captain, prisoner."

_Shit._

_Shit -_

The captain led the straggle of men in rags towards the tower, her armour clanking with her stride. As they approached, the waiting priestess watched them all with cool and contemplative eyes. She was utterly detached. _Probably seen a thousand people die. A few more won't matter._

Ulfric Stormcloak - _star attraction,_ Gregori thought, biting the corner of his mouth - was being treated to his last taste of failure by a smug Imperial commander. The victory speech looked like it would be going on for some time.

Greg drifted off, gazing instead at the slumped body of the thief. Arrows still protruded from the boy's back.

 _Bloody 'rebellion'. Civil war, more like._ It turned out Skyrim was tearing itself in two, and not giving a shit didn't keep a man safe from getting executed. Greg could've argued more, fought more, protested his innocence more - but the question, _"Then what're you doing sneaking across the border?"_ would only have brought him here anyway.

Back home, in the heartland of the Empire, they were talking about the Skyrim rebellion like a few dodgy pamphlets had been found.

Greg supposed he should have known. Of course the Empire was downplaying the scale of the trouble. Skyrim was in open rebellion, brothers were fighting each other in the street, and the way things were going -

_Well._

Greg glanced at the gagged rebel leader, bound and captive and waiting for the block.

_Looks like that's all done with, now._

_Turned up late to the fun,_ he thought, the dull humour as heavy as iron in his heart. _As always._

Just as Greg began to wonder how long they'd be expected to stand here, watching the commander enjoy his moment of glory, there came a strange noise.

It was like a distant grinding of iron against iron - like a lifting castle gate, enormous and far away. It seemed to come from the sky. As it stretched on it became a little like a bear's call, like a flume of fire echoing across the town, and it was odd enough to catch every single ear in the square.

Heads lifted; the commander faltered in his speech.

Silence fell.

"What was that?" the legionary asked, unnerved.

"It's nothing," the commander said, with a frown. He shot an annoyed look at the captain. "Carry on."

The captain nearly clicked her heels.

"Yes, General Tullius!" She nodded to the waiting priestess. "Give them their last rites."

Gregori shifted, wrapping his fingers around his bindings. _Lady Mara, I lay myself in your hands -_

The priestess's arms rose. She closed her eyes, breathing deep.

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius," she proclaimed, her voice calm and clear over the courtyard, "blessings of the Eight Divines upon - "

A rebel next to Gregori shoved past, forcing his way towards the block.

"For the love of Talos," he shouted, _"shut up,_ and let's get this over with!"

The priestess stuttered into silence. Annoyed, she lowered her arms.

"As you wish," she said, coldly.

Gregori considered briefly how fitting it was that even his last rites got cut short. _My life in a moment._ He watched numbly as the impatient rebel spat on the ground.

"Come on!" the man railed, full of bravery. Two soldiers duly dragged him to the block. "I haven't got all morning!"

The captain forced him to kneel. She put an armoured foot on his back, holding him down, and Greg's heart began to heave inside his chest. _Shit - shit - why can't I look away? I don't want to see this._

_Fuck me into Oblivion._

_I don't want to die._

The rebel twisted his head against the block, snarling up at the soldiers.

"My ancestors are smiling on me, Imperials," he jeered. "Can _you_ say the same?"

He never found out. The headsman didn't give them time to reply. He stepped back, hefted the axe and in a clean and heavy curve he swung.

Greg shut his eyes a second too late. He saw head and body detached; he saw the rebel slump sideways with a kick from the captain.

Nausea roiled up in his throat.

"You Imperial bastards!" a rebel voice cried, and then another voice nearby, "Justice!" A villager across the square screamed, "Death to the Stormcloaks!"

At Gregori's side, a tired voice remarked, "As fearless in death as he was in life..."

_Yeah?_

_A lot of bloody good it did him._

"Next!" the captain shouted. "The renegade from Cyrodiil!"

_Oh -_

_Fuck, that's me -_

At first Greg worried the sound he heard was himself: a ragged groan of panic, torn from his throat in his fear - but it was too loud by far. It came from above.

As heads turned with concern to the sky, his heart pounded in his mouth.

"There it is again." The legionary sounded worried. "Did you hear that?

The captain gritted her teeth.

"I said _next prisoner!"_ she bit at him - and with a look of regret to Gregori, the legionary shrugged. He crossed something out in his book, a clean stroke of quill.

"To the block, prisoner," he said. "Nice and easy."

Greg couldn't feel of his feet anymore. They carried him forwards in a daze. As everything moved around him his throat closed up. When he was close enough, a soldier stepped in and turned him towards the block.

His last sight on his feet was the legionary with the list, expression quiet and empty. He watched as Greg was forced down to his knees.

A foot appeared in the middle of Greg's back, pressing him forwards. With a grimace he laid his neck in the blood glistening on the block. The severed head of the Stormcloak rebel stared up at him from the box, face set forever in pale and open-mouthed panic.

Greg turned his eyes away, sickened.

He forced his neck round to look up at the headsman instead, and the great stone tower behind him, and the sky.

_Shit._

_Last words. Last thoughts._

_Home._

Panic screamed through Greg's chest. There had been no home - not in this lifetime. His last thoughts would be the headsman, the axe, and the sky. There was no time to think of anything else. He couldn't even think of Mara anymore. The gods were gone. There was only death.

The hooded man lifted the axe, ready to swing, and Greg breathed in.

A sudden scream went up from the crowd.

"What in Oblivion is _that?!"_ the commander roared, and before Greg could even think, he saw it.

It was _huge._

It was black, and it was in the sky above the tower - wings, claws, spikes. It was too big to be real. It appeared with horrifying speed, and as it swooped down onto the tower, air rushed through the square in a gale. The thing landed with a noise that shook the structure to its very foundations. The headsman stumbled; the axe clunked into the hay. People screamed.

As the creature stared down at them all, claws cracking into the stone, it surveyed them with the eager greed of a cat who'd found itself a nest of mice.

Greg's jaw dropped onto the block.

The captain's voice broke through the panic. "Sentries! What do you see!?"

Blades were being drawn.

Greg couldn't breathe. He couldn't move.

It wasn't real.

It couldn't be.

 _"DRAGON!"_ came the scream, and the beast opened wide its mouth.

Thunder wracked the ground. Colour and chaos flooded the sky. In a rush of sudden darkness and force, the tower cracked and started to fall. Everything lurched. Panic spiked through Greg's heart.

Out of nowhere hands grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging him up from the block.

"Get up!" a voice roared. "Come on! The gods won't give us another chance!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've not played Skyrim (or it's been a while) and you want to check how I did, the opening scene is [available on YouTube.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RrjJtYpOawU)


	2. Fire

"This way!"

Staggering they ran for the nearest tower. Stone and fire rained down around them. Everything shook. Gregori could barely see, panting as he sprinted after the blonde Nord from his cart. His wrists were still bound. People were screaming.

Inside the safety of the tower, a huddle of panic-stricken rebels were struggling to cut their wrist ties. The world outside was ending. The dragon's roar drowned out the shrieks of men and women roasting alive inside their skins.

As the Nord heaved shut the tower down behind them, the rebel leader ripped the gag from his mouth and spat.

"Jarl Ulfric!" The blonde man's voice sharpened with panic. "What _is_ that thing? Can the legends be true?"

The rebel leader glowered, breathing hard. "Legends don't burn down villages."

Greg began to wrench at his wrist ties with his teeth. There came another perishing shriek from the dragon outside, and the tower shook to its bones. _Gods, why - what is -_

"We need to move!" Ulfric shouted across the noise. _"Now!"_

"Up through the tower!" The blonde Nord pushed Greg in panic towards the stairs. He stumbled. "Let's go!"

Greg didn't need a second warning. He raced for the uneven steps and ran up them at once, his brain a shrieking mess of shock.

_Alive._

_I'm alive._

_For now._

Halfway up the tower, a sudden deep boom halted Greg's step - and his life was spared for the second time in as many minutes. As the tower wall caved inwards, stone and masonry flew in all directions. Greg flung himself against the wall to avoid it. There came a flash of black wings and claws from outside, then a jet of flame.

Greg cowered. He gritted his teeth and pressed himself as close to the tower wall as he could, panting against the heat, praying, his heart pounding.

When he felt the flames subside, he risked a glance.

The way upwards was blocked by rubble. It was a miracle it hadn't cascaded down towards them. The stone was melting before his eyes, bubbling like copper in a crucible, and through a great wound now smashed in the tower wall he could see the village of Helgen burning. The dragon was igniting the thatched houses like dry wheat. Archers were loosing arrows up at the thing in a panic, but they were killing each other faster. The thing was too quick.

It was shrieking with glee as people ran from its path.

"See the inn on the other side?" The blonde Nord had hurried up behind Greg. He was staring out of the gap in the tower wall, his face black with soot. "Jump through the roof, and keep going."

Greg nearly lost his mind.

"Jump through the... are you _fucking serious?!"_

"Jump, Cyrodiil!" the Nord barked. _"Jump or die!"_

_Mara - please - one more miracle -_

Greg took what little run-up he could get, fixed his eyes on the roof of the burning inn, and hurled himself out through the gap.

The inn surged up towards him as he fell. For a second he thought he was about to fly straight into a fucking beam, but the broken thatch on the roof broke his descent. He lurched, fell and slammed into the floor with a cry of pain. His every muscle screamed in resistance as he twisted himself onto his knees, spitting blood. Burning thatch was falling from above; smoke was pouring from below.

Half-crawling, half-running, Greg dragged himself to a hole smashed through the floorboards. Lowering himself with bound wrists wasn't easy. In the end it was quicker just to drop, take the damage to his knees and struggle out through the blackened shell of the inn, finding himself back out in the square.

The dragon was circling low overhead. People ran through the flames and the smoke, screaming to get away from the creature.

With a jolt Greg spotted the legionary who'd called his name. The man was racing from a burning house, sword in hand.

In the same moment, the legionary saw Greg.

"Still alive, prisoner?" he shouted. His leather armour was scorched, his hair singed. "Stay close to me if you want to stay that way!"

_Fuck - fuck -_

It was almost impossible to see. The legionary was at times just a shape within the smoke, but Greg followed him at a run. Burning shards of rock on the ground were ripping at his feet. They sprinted across the square together and ducked beside a house, hurling themselves flat against the wall as the dragon landed with a crunch of black claws atop the building beside them. Rubble rained down; Greg wrenched his bound wrists over his head to protect his face, shouting. _"Fuck!"_

As the dragon took off again, the rush of its wings fanned the flames ever higher.

"Quickly!" the legionary shouted. "Follow me!"

They pelted around the building, up a set of steps and through the bones of a ruined house, sprinting past a desperate trio of archers whose bows might as well have been unstrung. They were trying, all the same. Dead comrades and villagers were slumped at their feet, shining with blistering scarlet burns.

"It's you and me, prisoner!" the legionary roared, and Greg forced himself not to look and just to run, panting, his feet pounding across the burning cobbles.

They crossed an open courtyard. The dragon swept overhead, raging. Jets of flame striped down through the smoke, igniting human shapes that writhed and screamed then quickly fell.

"Quick!" The legionary's voice was somewhere close. An arm dragged around Greg's shoulders, pulling him onwards. "I can cut you loose inside the keep! We need to get inside!"

_Fuck, fuck - fuck -_

With every second it took to reach the doors, Greg expected flame to engulf them in a rush - claws through his soft and unprotected back - teeth closing around him - the blunt impact of burning rock, slamming into them from the side - fifty brutal deaths dogged their every step. The legionary smashed his armoured shoulder into the wooden doors, shoving them apart, and hauled Greg inside.

As Greg collapsed onto the stone floor, panting in panic, he heard the doors slam shut behind them.

The walls echoed with the muffled horror taking place outside. It was distant, though. The silence that fell in its wake was almost as shocking as the chaos.

Greg placed his forehead against the cold stone floor, shut his eyes, and fucking breathed.

_Alive._

With a shudder he reached for the amulet around his neck that wasn't there. His fingers closed on only rags. He swore softly, shaking, and lifted his head.

A soldiers' dormitory, from the look of it - narrow beds in rows with deerskins, wooden chests at the foot of each, hanging banners from the ceiling. Torches guttered in the low light. The echo of a square stone room was strangely calming. As Greg looked around, trying to steady his breath, the legionary sloughed the sweat from his forehead with a hand.

"Looks like we're the only ones who made it," he said.

Greg's heart contracted. _All those people, dead. Me, alive._ "I - I think you're right..."

"Was that really a dragon?" The legionary's mouth flattened as he looked down at Greg, uneasy. "'Bringers of the end times'."

Greg had heard that legend, too.

"If it wasn't a dragon," he said, "it was doing a bloody good impression of one."

The legionary inhaled.

"We should keep moving," he muttered, then reached for his belt. He drew a short knife and approached Greg, kneeling. "Come here. Let me see if I can get those bindings off."

Shaking, Greg offered out his wrists.

The legionary was surprisingly gentle as he worked the blade through the knot. Their settling breaths were the only sounds in the room. Greg wondered how old he was - they were somewhere similar, he thought. They'd maybe even glimpsed each other across a battlefield before.

At last, as the knife sliced through the dirty fabric, Greg felt his shoulders give a silent groan of relief. He parted his wrists for the first time in days, stretched himself out and panted up at the ceiling for a few seconds, aching.

"There you go," the legionary murmured. He sheathed the knife, rising to his feet. "Take a look around. There should be plenty of gear to choose from."

"Gear?"

"'Ex-Legion'?" his new friend said, raising an eyebrow at him. "Welcome back into the ranks, soldier. We have to get out of here alive, and we won't be the only ones who took refuge in the keep. Every Stormcloak but one escaped the block. They'll have our heads if they spot us."

Greg said nothing for a second, wary. "You - believe I'm not a Stormcloak?"

"Of course you're not a Stormcloak," the legionary said, frowning. "What would someone from Cyrodiil be doing with Nord rebels? You're as guilty as a snake of _something,_ gods know - but I'm not dying today. We need each other. Now get up."

He moved over to a nearby chest.

"I'm going to see if I can find something for these burns." Without looking, he added, "It's Hadvar, by the way."

Greg hesitated. He wished he'd given a false name when he was captured, but it was too late to change that now. "Gregori. Or - Greg."

"Yes, I remember. Now get up."

He didn't need to search long. The first chest he checked at the end of a bed was in perfect order - leather armour, bracers, boots and a helmet, all neatly stored and kept in good condition. It was the same kit that would be found in every soldier's chest across the empire.

"You'd better get that armour on." Hadvar tossed something across the room at Greg's feet with a clatter. "Give that sword a few swings, too."

"I remember how to swing a sword, thanks."

"Mm? Not been 'Ex-Legion' long, have you?" Hadvar was applying burn ointment to his face and neck by the handful. "You've had your wrists bound for over a week. Test your shoulders now before it counts."

Greg got himself into the armour quickly. His fingers flew over the fastenings of the bracers and buttons. _Should've known I'd be back in these bloody things before long._ The sword was iron and it was crap, poorly-weighted and standard issue, but it was sharp enough to kill something. It would do for now.

Seeing him dressed, Hadvar gave a stiff nod.

"Let's keep moving," he said. "That thing's still out there."

"Where are we going?"

"Try for the western gate," Hadvar suggested. "Get onto the road, head for Falkreath... we can send for reinforcements from there."

As he pulled the chain to open the metal gate onwards through the keep, he gave Greg a sideways glance.

"Why did you desert the Legion?" he asked.

Greg pressed his teeth into the side of his tongue. "M'not a coward. It wasn't like that."

"Hmm." The gate lifted, as the dragon's distant roar echoed through the walls. Hadvar led the way on. "Prove it to me."

They proceeded through the torchlit corridors together, passing doorways that Hadvar ignored. Their steps clanked in the quiet. Far away, the booms of the battlemages were growing less frequent. Now and then a shudder shook the ground.

At last, as they approached a stone chamber barred by another gate, Hadvar put out a hand. He stopped Greg in silence.

Voices came from beyond the iron bars.

"We need to get moving! The dragon's tearing up the whole keep!"

"Just - give a minute... I'm out of breath..."

Hadvar leant across to Greg's ear. His voice came low and soft.

"Stormcloaks," he murmured. "Maybe we can reason with them."

 _Maybe._ Greg tightened his grip on the sword handle. "Two of them, d'you reckon?"

Hadvar listened for a few moments. "Mm."

"So I'll reason with one, and you reason with the other?"

The huff of breath made Greg smile a little. "Agreed."

As the gate clanked open, the two rebels turned towards the noise. Greg sized them up at speed - a man and a woman, both Nords, and she was nursing a bad head wound already. At the sight of them, her face warped with fury. She lunged for her warhammer.

"Imperial dogs!" she raged, teeth gritting. "You'll pay!"

 _So much for reasoning._ Greg rushed forward, ducked the heavy swing and came up behind her, driving his sword as cleanly through her back as he could. _Sorry, friend. It's you or me. And I'm on a lucky streak._

By the time he wrenched his sword free from her ribcage, Hadvar was finishing off her companion. Greg tried not to be impressed by the speed with which he moved, evading the rebel's war-axe with clean-cut motions. The final blow was a slash across the throat. Before the man even properly hit the ground, Hadvar turned his back and strode across the chamber.

"Help me get this door open," he said as he sheathed his weapon, unmoved.

Greg obeyed. Command felt familiar, and right now familiar would keep his panic in check. There wasn't time for panic.

Together they took apart the barrier the rebels had made, broke their way through the door, and stepped through it to find another corridor.

Hadvar led the way to a flight of wide stone steps, spiralling downwards into the keep.

"Anvil?" he said with mild interest, as they descended.

Greg's heart tightened. "Dad was a merchant. Sailed the Gold Coast."

"Ah. You didn't enter his trade?"

"Retired," Greg muttered, "by the time I was born... I have older brothers, anyway. Half-brothers."

"Hmm. 'Off to the army with you, boy'?"

"I _chose_ the army, thanks."

"Then chose to leave it?" Hadvar took a ring of iron keys from his belt, unlocking another door. "Why weren't you heading back to Anvil? Worried you'd be shamed?"

 _Don't talk to me about shame, mate. You've no idea._ "I heard good things about Skyrim... thought I'd head for Solitude. I heard a man can disappear there, make a new life out of nothing."

Hadvar snorted.

"If you want a new life sucking sailors off for a septim or two," he said, "Solitude will suit you nicely."

The door came open with a clunk. He reattached the keys to his belt, frowning.

"I don't see why someone would desert the Empire," he said, studying Greg, "only to head straight for a country in the midst of open rebellion... against the Empire."

Greg bit his cheek. "It's complicated, alright? I didn't desert because I'm scared of war."

"Why else do soldiers desert?" Hadvar asked, with a heavy dose of doubt, and a glance that made Greg's stomach squeeze.

"How about we get out of here alive," Greg suggested, "find a tavern, you can buy me an ale, and _then_ we'll swap life stories?"

_And I'll have time to think of a lie._

Hadvar huffed. "As you wish," he said, as they stepped off the bottom of another staircase. "Though I should warn you, my life story might be dull in exchange for your - "

Their only warning was a deep resounding boom, as the walls began to shake.

Greg lunged, grabbed Hadvar by the straps on his armour and hauled him back onto the stairs just in time. A crack jagged its way through the ceiling of the corridor ahead. There was another booming impact, another crack, and the walls began to cave. Training turned them into each other for safety, covering each other's heads as the room shook around them. The sound of falling masonry was deafening. Greg gritted his teeth, holding on. Before he could even begin to pray, the shaking stopped - and they raised their heads to look.

The corridor ahead had been ruined from above. Earth and stone and rubble blocked the way.

 _"Damn,"_ Hadvar breathed. "That dragon doesn't give up easy."

"Why in Oblivion is it trying to get into the keep? What's it after?"

"I don't know." Hadvar pulled him back up the stairs. "Come on. We'll have to risk the supply tunnel."

Through a wooden door, then at speed along several corridors, they reached a store-room. Rabbits, pheasants and bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling. Every corner was stacked with barrels of apples and salt, sacks of flour, piles of firewood, and the shelves were laden with Alto wine, iron cooking equipment and lanterns.

At the sight of the food, Greg stiffened slightly and hung back. Hadvar strode across the room, jangling once more through his keys.

He noted Greg's pause as he sorted through the ring.

Glancing over, he took in the hesitant expression - then rolled his eyes and said, "If you must..."

Greg's mouth pulled. "I'm not a thief."

"You're not a lot of things, aren't you?" Hadvar remarked, keeping a blind eye on his keys as Greg seized a satchel from a shelf and started filling it with apples and dried meat. "Healing draughts in the chest by the fire."

"Gods on high. Thanks." Greg hauled open the lid of the chest, and seized the clutch of glittering glass bottles inside. He supposed nobody here was going to be using them. "Why're you helping me?"

Hadvar said nothing, fitting the key into the lock. He tugged open the door and waited for Greg to finish pilfering.

"Done, then?" he said at last, raising an eyebrow.

Greg gave him a flat smile. "Yep," he says, hefting the satchel over his shoulder. "All set."

Hadvar rolled his eyes. "This way."

They headed down another winding set of stairs, through two locked doors and then down more steps. _How deep is this damn place?_ Greg couldn't hear a thing of the outside world anymore. He didn't know if it was because they were too deep into the earth now, or because there was nothing left to hear. He didn't really want to think about it. They passed through an empty prison, cages full of people long past any help, bits of bone and old rags, and Greg kept his eyes down as they made their way on. _Stormcloaks,_ he thought. _Rebels. People worth keeping alive for a while._ He didn't think it was his imagination that it was getting colder.

Another set of stone corridors, then finally a metal gate barred the way to a tunnel. The heavy iron portcullis took Hadvar's key, then both of them to lift it.

Hadvar paused to pull a torch from its iron bracket on the wall.

"What are these tunnels?" Greg asked, as they step beneath the portcullis onto damp earth. The light of Hadvar's torch gleamed from the rock walls, roughly hewn and thick with moss.

"They lead to natural caves," Hadvar said, voice echoing. He glanced back to make sure Greg was following. "There's a fissure comes out on the northern side of the hill, in the forest south of Riverwood... unless the tunnel has collapsed, we should be able to escape."

"And - if it _has_ collapsed?"

They proceeded into the darkness together, torchlight licking over the walls.

"Then we make a start on that food you've stolen," Hadvar said. "I hope you took the bottle of Cyrodilic brandy. Come on."

The air thinned as they followed the tunnel downwards into the earth. After almost twenty minutes, they reached a running stream and paused to drink, washing their faces in the clean icy water. In times gone by, this must have been a river - it carved this passageway for itself through the rock. It had left the walls smooth and dark; stalactites now spiked down from above.

"Alright?" Hadvar said, and put a hand between Greg's shoulders as he got up. "Good to continue?"

Greg heaved the satchel back over his arm. "Yeah. Sure."

"How are the burns on your hands?"

"Didn't realise I had them until now. Gonna hurt tomorrow."

"At least you'll live to see tomorrow," the legionary remarked. He squinted into the darkness ahead. "We're wisest to follow the stream, I think."

"What d'you mean, you 'think'?"

"Strangely," Hadvar said, a little tart, "I've never had to escape the keep this way before. It's not attacked by dragons on a regular basis."

"You know what you just said, about me living to see tomorrow?"

"Any other plans?" Hadvar asked. "No? I didn't think so. Let's head on, then."

The icy water soaked at once through Greg's boots. It was glorious on his burned feet, cold and clean, and after ten minutes its crystalline sound on the close rock walls became almost soothing. Hadvar stayed close at his side, helping him over the uneven bed of the stream when needed. As his heart slowed, Greg started becoming aware of all those injuries that his body hadn't wanted to mention until now. He'd twisted at least one knee, maybe both, and the weight of the satchel was hell on his shoulder. It felt like there might be a burn there, too.

Ditching the satchel wasn't an option, though.

Getting out of here was only step one.

He was going to have to find shelter, money and a story. He didn't have a clue about Skyrim. This rebellion was clearly far worse than the Empire made out. He hoped that getting across the border would be the worst part over and done with, and he'd be able to pay someone to get him to Solitude. Skyrim's capital city was big enough and dirty enough for someone to vanish in it - and that's just what Greg needed to do.

So far, it hadn't really been going to plan.

The place turned out to be colder than Arkay's divine arsehole, when it wasn't fucking _on fire,_ and the people tended to execute first and ask questions later.

Heading to Skyrim might have been a titanic mistake.

But now he was finally over the border, and out of his prisoner rags, Greg couldn't exactly risk going back.

_The only way is onwards, as they say._

It might have been wishful thinking, but the air seemed to be clearing. Hadvar had certainly picked up the pace. He was urging Greg along with the look of a man who knew they were on the right path. At last, the stream narrowed away through a gap in the rock while a tunneled passage to their right led them on.

Wet, panting, they headed on into the darkness.

The light of Hadvar's torch at last washed over the walls of a wider cave.

Greg's heart tightened as he realises what was brushing around their ankles.

"Plants. Hadvar - green plants. Sunlight somewhere."

"We're close," Hadvar said, and spotted a rock pile up ahead. It led to a flattened slope. "Here. This way."

Greg hurried behind him. The rocks were slippery to climb, and his knee jagged him with pain on every movement now. Seeing him start to struggle, Hadvar jammed the torch into a crevice between two rocks, reached down and wrapped an arm beneath Greg's shoulders, hauling him up.

"Thanks," Greg panted, slumping onto the rock slope in a heap. He swallowed as he caught his breath. "Okay... one last go at this... _why_ are you helping me?"

"You're useful. We needed two of us to lift the portcullis."

"You didn't know we'd need to go that way," Greg said, shaking his head. "Not buying it. For all you know I'm a coward or a traitor. Now it looks like we're friends. Tell me why."

Hadvar's face shifted in the firelight. He was silent for a moment, watching Greg pant - then made the decision to speak.

Something leapt from the darkness behind him with a screech.

 _"Shit!"_ As the frostbite spider dug its fangs into Hadvar's shoulder, Greg scrabbled for his sword. Hadvar's scream of pain sheared off the walls. "Shit, shit - "

The bloody thing was the size of a dog - and it wasn't alone. Greg twisted his sword into its thorax, slicing the blade free in a shower of venom, only to see the second descend screeching from above. It tried to grab hold of him, legs flailing. He swung his sword with a grunt, severing as many as he could.

Hadvar collapsed to the ground beside him, gasping.

_Shit._

_No, no - not when we're this far -_

A gobful of venom spattered across Greg's face, flung from across the cave. He reeled, cringing. The venom started to sting.

_Fuck -_

_Fuck, I can't -_

_Right -_

Greg dropped the sword. He threw himself over Hadvar, shielding him, and threw out both hands towards the spiders.

The finger movements were as instinctive as swinging a sword. It took the last of his strength. It took a roar of effort that echoed through the cave, but as it tore from Greg's throat, it brought with it a torrent of flame from both palms. The cave erupted with orange light around them as the frostbite spiders shrieked and twisted and burned, their screeches sharpening. Greg held the stream, panting, fire gleaming in his eyes as he shook from head to foot. He could feel Hadvar holding onto him. He could feel his fingers burning.

At last, the high-pitched screams were gone - and with a gasp, Greg let the stream break. The flames burned out, swallowed by darkness.

As he slumped to the floor, arms came up to grab him.

"Here - easy - it's alright. Easy."

Hadvar lowered him to the ground. Greg's head swam. "Shit... shit... shouldn't have done that..."

"Easy. Take a minute." Hadvar's voice tightened. "You're a spellsword."

Greg panted, holding onto the cave floor.

"N-Not a good one," he said. "Breton mother. I - don't like to - "

"By the nine..." Hadvar searched his face, pale. "Why have you come to Skyrim? Mages are - they're not _common_ here - "

"I'm not a bloody mage," Greg snapped, shutting his eyes against the whirling of his brain. "Clearly." He flapped a hand at his now prone state. "I'm a soldier. _Not_ a spellsword. And you're welcome, by the way. D'you need one of my healing draughts?"

Hadvar huffed with reluctant amusement. "'Your' healing draughts."

"They're mine now. D'you want one or not?"

"No, it - the venom was only briefly - I'm fine."

"Right. Good." Greg breathed in, laying a hand on his stomach. The swimming sensation was starting to ebb, settled by the feeling of bare rock beneath his back. "Just give me a minute and we'll go. I - don't do that often."

"Take as long as you need." Hadvar sat on the floor beside him, wiping venom off his face on his sleeve. "You should be careful with that around the common folk."

"Yeah, thanks. I don't _commonly_ set things on fire."

"They trust in metal here. Not magic."

"Fine? I'm a soldier. Not a mage. Stop fretting."

"I wasn't _fretting,"_ Hadvar said, affronted. "I'm just _telling_ you, as an outsider to Skyrim, you'll blend in far better as a mercenary than as a - "

"I'm not a mage!" Greg said. "Gods save my sanity. And I don't need your tips, thanks. I'm doing fine in Skyrim. I've only been nearly executed once. We'll not talk about the incident with the dragon."

Hadvar was quiet for a moment.

"I don't think I can believe it yet," he muttered. "A _dragon._ Like in the legends. But... real."

"Yeah, well... those burns'll feel real in the morning, too. So will that spider bite." Greg reached for his sword, returning it with a _schink_ to its sheath. "Come on," he said, and sat up with a groan, wincing at the venom all over his armour. "Help me to my feet, before something else arrives to kill us..."

 

*

 

They both caught the whisper of a breeze at once.

"Gods - is that - "

"There's light. Up ahead. Look."

As they hurried towards it, the cave turned to reveal a jagged opening in the rock. A shaft of pure white sunlight streamed through it, glistening as bright as a blade in the darkness. Gasping with relief, they grabbed each other around the shoulders and staggered towards it, almost laughing.

Hadvar helped Greg over the rocks to reach it. The light was almost painfully pure, sweeter than any sight Greg had ever seen - and as they emerged through the crevice onto a hillside, pine forest laid out below them and mountains far off in the distance, it's all he could do not to drop to his knees.

"Gods alive... don't think I've ever seen a more - "

Hadvar seized him suddenly by the neck.

 _"Wait!"_ he gasped, dragging Greg sideways behind a rock - and as Greg crouched beside him, every muscle tense, he heard it: a distant, echoing roar.

"Where the fuck is it?" he breathed.

Hadvar risked a glance around the rock. He was still for a moment, watching the sky. His hand still held tightly to Gregori's arm.

"Flying off," he muttered. "Heading north..."

Birds were singing in the nearby trees. The forest air was fresh and warm and green; the grass felt soft beneath Greg's hands.

"Looks like he's gone for good this time," Hadvar murmured, with an uneasy glance. "I don't think we should stick around to see if he comes back."

Greg's heart gripped. "No... no, me neither."

"Closest town from here is Riverwood." Hadvar nodded down the slope. A road could just be seen through the trees, old stones worn smooth by travellers over many years. "My uncle's the blacksmith there. I'm sure he'd help you out."

Greg realised his pulse has picked up a little. "Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why'?"

"Why would he help me? The man's never met me."

"Come with me then," Hadvar shrugged. "I'll tell him you're a friend of mine. Another legionary. He might even fix you up some better armour."

Greg searched his face, bewildered.

"Why did you save my life?" he demanded. "Why are you doing this for me?"

Hadvar avoided his eyes, adjusting one of the straps on his armour.

"I've told you," he said. "You were useful. I needed back-up to - "

"All those soldiers?" Greg said, unconvinced. "And you drag along the bloke in rags? C'mon. Tell me."

Hadvar paused. Greg watches his tongue move around his teeth, gathering his courage.

"Come to Riverwood," he said at last. He looked up at Greg, a little awkward, his gaze a little intense, and the colour in his cheeks triggered the final click in Greg's mind. "There's an inn. I'll - buy you an ale. You can tell me more about all the things you've not done."

_Ah._

Greg looked at him, his stomach hard. For a few moments, he imagined it - and he almost said yes. An inn, he thought, a mug of ale. A few more after that. Sitting warm by the fire together, telling each other about every damn mistake they've ever made. There would be a room upstairs in exchange for a few septims. It would be quiet, and safe, and the bed would be warm.

_Then what?_

_You'll come with me in the morning, will you?_

_You'll be creeping out of there before dawn, holding your boots. I know your type._

He hadn't turned his back on his entire life only to keep making the same stupid mistakes.

Greg breathed in, feeling his heart pull with regret.

"Listen," he said, and watched Hadvar's gaze dull. "You don't want to be seen with me. I mean it. If you knew a thing about me, you wouldn't've helped me. That's a fact."

"I don't care that you're a deserter." Hadvar held his eyes, still hopeful. "Skyrim is a dangerous place. Make friends where you can."

Greg bit his cheek.

"You saved my life today," he said. "I wouldn't have made it without your help... s'another fact. I appreciate it."

Quietly he got to his feet.

"But the best way I can pay you back?" he said. "Letting you walk away. Don't get tangled up with me. That's the fastest road to disaster there is."

Hadvar watched him for a moment, still sitting on the ground. His face was a mixture of disappointment, fascination and strange respect.

"What did you do?" he asked. "Why did you flee Cyrodiil for Skyrim?"

Greg's stomach tightened hearing it.

"To disappear," he said. He glanced at the forest, the mountains, the open sky above the valley - not a soul in sight. "So far, so good."

Hadvar gave him a faint smile. "Probably best if we split up, then."

"It's best." Of that, Greg was certain. "Thank you. If I had anything to give - "

Hadvar huffed.

"Perhaps we'll come across each other again," he said. His eyes were bright, no hard feelings, and somehow it made Greg feel worse. "Pay me back when we do."

Greg smiled in return, even as his heart hardened. He nodded down the slope. "Where's the road lead?"

Hadvar pointed north.

"Riverwood," he said. "A little less than a day." He added, "My uncle is Alvor. I'll tell him your name, and say you might be passing through. You'll get food and a bed for the night at least."

He pointed to the west, deeper into the forest.

"Falkreath," he said, vaguely. "It calls itself a city, but there's nothing there. Big graveyard, lots of miserable people."

 _I'll feel right at home, then._ "Right. How far's Falkreath?"

"A little more than a day, maybe longer with your injuries. Watch out for wolves."

"Great. Thanks."

As he turned to go, Hadvar's voice called him back. "Gregori?"

Greg glanced round.

Hadvar was still sitting on the ground beside the rock, dishevelled and dirty in his fitted leather armour, and for a moment Greg's soul groaned at him that inns had hot baths and lockable doors. _Just one night,_ he thought. _Tend my wounds. Make me forget._

_Gods damn my honour._

"Good luck," Hadvar said, and he smiled.

Greg curled his fingers around the hilt of his sword.

 _New life,_ he thought. _Let's start with some new mistakes._

"Had my share of good luck already," he said, turned, and walked away in silence through the trees.

 


	3. Forest

The walking wasn't easy on Greg's knee. He found himself glad of the road, glad of the milder weather, and glad of the decent army boots on his feet. If he got to Falkreath slowly, so be it; so long as he got there in one piece.

He took frequent breaks just to sit by the roadside and eat - apples from his bag, strips of dried beef. The pine forest was peaceful and quiet all around, full of rabbits and deer, and he hadn't seen another person in hours. He'd had it in his mind to flag a cart down if he spotted one, maybe cadge a lift - but it looked as if this journey would be in his own hands.

In a way, it was weirdly reassuring.

He'd not lived like this since before he joined the Legion. Even back then, he'd always had people counting on him. There was always something to be doing, someone waiting for him to get it done, and he'd had no business just sitting on a rock and resting with the mountain flowers.

It was now almost freeing to let himself feel tired. The pain in his knee was his own pain; he'd nurse it for a while if he wanted to. It didn't matter if it took him a week to get to Falkreath. He had enough food in his bag. He was free, and he was alive, and no-one in Tamriel had a clue where he was right now. The forest didn't know who he was. The trees couldn't care less about the man making his way quietly along their road. He was just a traveller, taking his time.

_Alive._

He wondered if there'd be a shrine to Mara in Falkreath. Back in Cyrodiil, every city had a temple to the gods.

He'd have to find something to leave on her altar. He'd asked her for a miracle, and she gave him about a hundred. It didn't feel real, thinking how many moments today could have been his last.

Closer to Falkreath, he thought, he'd gather wildflowers from the woods for her.

He didn't have much in this new life yet. He had his freedom, though. He'd spend it finding beautiful things for the one person who never gave up on him.

 

*

 

By the time the light began to fall, Greg was happy to admit his exhaustion. He used the last of his energy to find a small hollow just off the road, where he'd be sheltered from the rain and invisible to anyone passing by. For all the peace of the woods in daylight, they could be very different places at night. Skyrim's forests would likely be no kinder than those back in Cyrodiil.

He dragged a few fallen branches into place as cover for any rain, then built a small fire, just enough for himself. He surrounded it with stones to keep it contained while he slept.

It wasn't going to be the most comfortable night of his life, he thought, settling with his back tucked tight against the hollow. It would be far from the worst, though.

He woke a few times to odd sounds in the night, and at one point to gentle howling in the distance - but he slept well, and the fire kept the cold at bay.

 

*

 

Breakfast was bread, an apple and some dried fish, which turned out to be even less appetising than it looked. It would give him energy for the road though, and that was all he could ask.

When he'd eaten, he took a few minutes to thank Mara for his good fortunes. If these last two days had proven anything, it was that the unluckiest man in the world could become the luckiest in the space of five minutes.

He wondered if news of the dragon attack had spread yet. The beast might have moved onto another village by now, another town. It could have laid waste to half of Skyrim.

_Is it true?_

_The end times?_

Everyone in Tamriel had heard the story. A great dragon would bring about the end of the world - swallow it whole.

That thing hadn't been big enough to swallow the world. It had laid a town to ruins in minutes, though.

Greg supposed that for ordinary folk, the end of days would feel very much like all other days. There was still the harvest to take in, the children to feed, the winter frosts to fear. He'd seen armies do as much damage as the dragon had. Worrying about the end of the world seemed a little above his station, when he wasn't even sure where the end of the morning would find him. There were scholars and priests and kings to care about these things. Normal people like him just tried to make it from one summer to the next.

The world had nearly ended for him yesterday.

It was hard to feel anything right now but grateful.

He carried on down the road with the rising sun, and after a couple of hours found a stream where he could drink and wash his face. He sat for a while there, just watching the water. _Always moving,_ he thought. _Always changing._ When he left, he took a pebble that seemed rounder and more pleasing than the others.

Mara would have it when he reached her shrine in Falkreath.

After that, he would find work. Solitude would be several weeks' journey away. He'd need gold for the road, and a decent sword. If he could get hold of a horse, even a knackered old one, all the better.

With proper steel in his hand, he'd try his luck as a blade for hire. People never asked many questions of a man like that. So long as he was strong enough to do the job, and looked honest enough not to cut their throat in their sleep, he'd be alright.

 _Life's easier,_ he thought as he walked, _when there's just you to worry about._

_Just you to care about._

 

*

 

As the day drew on, the sunlight dimmed and the birds grew quiet in the trees. Rain began in abundance just after midday. When it got heavy enough to soak through his armour, Greg took a while to shelter off the road - but with no sign of the clouds moving on, and only so many hours of light left in the sky, he told himself he was due a decent wash and pushed ahead.  

The pain in his knee was getting harder to ignore. The wet weather didn't help. Grumbling old injuries were flaring up across his body, adding their voices to the discomfort, and sitting himself on the ground to rest was no longer an option.

He found himself thinking of Hadvar, and the warm inn they could have been lying in by now.

_Maybe I... I could've..._

Regrets were easy in the rain.

He tried to remind himself he was lucky to be here getting rained on, and that there would be a warm inn of his own soon enough. He'd met plenty of men like Hadvar in the army - men's men - tent-hoppers - couldn't quite look you in the eye, but had a good look as you walked away. Wives in distant villages somewhere whose faces they didn't even remember.

Greg had turned those men down, too.

He was a loyal man.

He was a stupid man.  

_No._

_Not stupid. Kept my promise._

He'd sworn an oath to Mara, and he kept it. It didn't matter how poorly other mortals treated their solemnities to the gods. He'd kept his word all those years.

Thinking of Hadvar, he realised he was keeping it even now.

 _Doesn't matter,_ he thought, heaving the wet and heavy satchel over his other shoulder. In Falkreath, he would approach the goddess's shrine with his head held high.

That was what mattered.

 

*

 

The sun began to sink in the sky.

Greg kept track of it as he walked, uneasy, wondering if he'd be wiser to find shelter and wait for dawn. The rain showed signs of easing, but not stopping. He could burn his energy to light a fire with magic if he had to, but he'd struggle to keep it going in these conditions. There'd be nowhere dry to sleep, and for all he knew, Falkreath would appear at any moment through the trees.

Thinking of Mara's shrine, and somewhere warm and dry to sleep, Greg gritted his teeth and carried on.

Darkness settled slowly beneath the trees.

_Just over a day, Hadvar said. I've taken time to rest._

_This is fine._

_I'm not lost._

If it were any dryer, he'd light a torch - but the rain would extinguish it in minutes.

As the path became hard to see, and the small noises of the forest began to loom large in his mind, Greg bit the inside of his cheek and gave in.

Stretching his fingers, he shut his eyes to concentrate. He imagined it, palms full of brimming white, and kindled the energy into being with his fingertips. _Light,_ he breathed in his mind.

Light flooded across his eyelids.

He opened them, exhaling with a shudder, and looked up to find a bright ball of light now drifting above him in the air. It wouldn't last for long - but it was better company than none.

By the fifth time he cast it, Greg was starting to worry.

_Should be there by now._

_Can't have missed it, can I? Entire town..._

There was a shape appearing on the path ahead. It caught in the very edge of his light, person-shaped and standing quite still.

As Greg approached, his heart quickening, the shadow began to reveal itself - an orc in heavy armour, his ears full of piercings, stumpy black top-knot and a beard to match, watching with enormous interest as Greg came closer.

_Fuck me up. Thank the gods._

"'Scuse me," Greg said, limping through the rain towards the stranger. "How far is it to - "

"What's a milk-drinker like you doing out here?" the orc asked with a grin, his eyes glinting. His gaze wandered Greg from top to bottom, taking in the sodden armour and the crap iron sword.

 _Yikes._ "Getting to Falkreath," Greg said. "If I'm lucky. How far is it?"

The orc chuckled - pointed teeth, grey lips. "Off home to your mother?"

Greg's eyes contracted. He took a second to settle himself, aware of his speeding pulse. "No need to be rude, mate."

"Yeah?" the orc said, and Greg realised with a lurch that he was carrying several coin purses on his belt - different styles, different materials, some of which look like they belonged in far finer hands. "What're you gonna do, cry? Gimme a break."

As thick grey fingers strayed to the mace handle at the orc's side, Greg's hand drifted too. He took hold of his sword, his shoulders setting.

"Back off," he warned, his voice low. Rain spattered their faces. "Let me pass."

"Brave, travelling alone..." The orc took a step forward. "Brave or dumb as shit."

 _Stendarr's balls._ "Prey on people who're alone, do you?" Greg tightened his grip on the sword hilt. "Bad news," he snarled. "I've not come this far to be stopped by some knucklehead."

The orc's face contorted.

"I don't have to take that from you," he grunted, drew his mace, and advanced.

The first blow nearly knocked Greg to the ground. He staggered, blocked the next furious swing with his blade, and barked, "I said back off!"

"Or _what?"_ the orc jeered, aiming another swing. Greg dodged backwards, feeling his injured knee threatening to snap beneath him, and bolstered his grip on his sword.

"Or I'll kill you!"

The orc's laugh rang around the nearby trees. "Yeah? How're you gonna do that?"

Greg lunged forward, lashing with the sword.

The orc reared backwards to avoid the blade, grunting with surprise.

As he found his feet he snarled, "You've done it now, human!" and charged at Greg, swinging the mace once more.

They traded blows, circling and dodging as the ball of light whirled above their heads. Greg could feel himself beginning to tire. _Just a little longer. Any second now._ He deflected the mace as much as he could, trying to save his energy by defending rather than attacking.

The orc was winning, and he knew it. His ugly face warped in a grin as he aimed another blow for Greg's head.

"What've you got in that satchel, eh?" he brayed. "Something worth dying for, is it?"

Above them, the ball of light winked out. Darkness dropped.

Greg struck.

There came a hoarse cry. He felt his blade grate between the plates of metal armour, sinking through the fragile muscle and flesh beneath. Even orcs were soft between the ribs. Heat gushed across Greg's hands where they gripped the sword, and it was blood, and in total darkness he felt the orc stiffen up and gasp one last breath.

Greg wrenched his sword out. There was a further gush of blood, and the orc dropped. He hit the ground somewhere at Greg's feet, groaned, then fell still.

Shaking, Greg sheathed his sword.

He filled his palms with light again. The ball, as it bobbed back over his head, illuminated the blood and the rain all over his hands - and the orc now lying dead at his feet.

Greg pushed his hands down his tunic, wiping the blood away.

"Apples," he said, panting. "Bread. One bottle of brandy. That's what you died for, mate."

He spotted the handle of a dagger in the orc's belt. Leaning down Greg tugged it free, turned it in his fingers, then knelt to cut the strings of all the purses.

"Suspect you shouldn't have these," he told the orc, tugged open his satchel and stuffed them inside. "Don't worry. I'll bring some good out of them. Looks like my first night at the inn's on you."

He stood up, still panting.

"To think I heard people in Skyrim are arseholes," he said, slid the orc's dagger into his belt, and carried on his way along the road.

 

*

 

Walls. Town walls. A wooden palisade. A torchlight gatehouse with a guard, and buildings behind it, purple banners emblazoned with a stag's head soaking in the rain.

Greg had never been so happy to see a settlement in all his life.

He staggered the last part of the road, ready to drop, and approached the guard with barely a breath left in his lungs.

"Falkreath?" he said, spitting rain.

"Last time I checked." The guard eyed the weapon at his side, his cynical expression unhidden by the nose guard. "Iron sword, huh? What are you killing, butterflies?"

Greg gritted his teeth. "You don't pull your punches in this bloody country, do you?"

"Are you a messenger?" the guard asked, now considering the uniform. "From the Legion, right?"

"Uhh - "

"Whatever it is, don't bother telling the jarl. Tell his steward, Nenya. Only one with any sense around here." The guard nodded through the gate. "Go on. Down this road and on your left - that'll bring you to the tavern. Tell Narri that Gunjar says hi."

Greg frowned. "I will... thanks."

He saw little of the buildings around him. He proceeded doggedly along the road until he spotted the hanging sign for an inn, then stumbled towards it with his soul singing in his veins. His knee was howling at him to rest, and both his shoulders ached from the weight of the satchel - but he was here. He'd made it. He didn't even register the name of the inn as he pushed through the door.

The scent of firewood and ale filled his lungs.

The place was nearly empty. _Good._ A few lonely souls were huddled at separate tables, while a landlady rearranged the empty chairs and a bard strummed quietly at a lute - some sombre tune that barely disturbed the crackle of the fire pit.

Rain dripped miserably from Greg's cloak as he approached the bar.

The landlady gave him an easy smile. "Welcome to Dead Man's Drink. What can I get you?"

Greg's heart caved on the spot. He nearly kissed her. "You're from Cyrodiil."

"Imperial City." A grin spread across her face. "New in Skyrim, are you?"

"Gods. You've no idea."

"Let's get you some ale," she said. "How's venison stew sound? Plenty left."

Greg groaned. "Am I dead?"

She laughed, delighted.

"Not yet," she said. "You're only half-drowned, friend. Go sit down and I'll fetch you some food."

"Have you got any rooms free?"

"Too many," she said. "It's ten septims for the night. Call it eight for another Cyrodiil boy. That okay?"

Greg scrabbled for his satchel.

 

*

 

On his second bowl of stew, with the fire's warmth finally reaching through his sodden armour to his skin, Greg found himself being joined at his table. A young woman of almost startlingly skimpy costume eased herself onto the bench beside him, cast him a feline smile, and in a Nord accent said,

"Valga tells me you're from her country." Her eyes glittered from within a thick ring of black kohl. "Have you come to help 'drive out the Stormcloaks'?"

Greg had never seen quite so many coloured powders and greases on one face. He wondered if there was even a face under there to find.

Realising she was referring to his uniform, he coughed a little and swallowed his mouthful of stew.

"Erm - no. Just looking for work."

"You're not a soldier?" she purred, her lashes lowering.

 _Not anymore._ "I was," he said. He tried to keep his gaze in his food, hoping she took the hint. "It's complicated."

"Mhm. A complicated man." She fanned her coy fingers at his elbow. "Just my type."

"Yeah?" Greg fished a hunk of potato out of his stew, placed it in his mouth and chewed it. "They're my type, too."

She got it.

She gave a little chuckle, took her hand off him, and eased her tone from predatory to fond.

"You're going to have the men around here wrapped around your finger in no time," she said. "Those big eyes. You should find an excuse to let the new jarl get a look at you... you'll be sleeping on silk sheets before you know it."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Complicated, is he?"

"Ah... I wouldn't say that." Her eyes sparkled as she smirked. "He likes a handsome face, though."

"What d'you mean, 'new' jarl?"

"Taken over from his uncle," she said, dimly. "Caused a bit of a fuss... if you care about these things."

She watched him drink, her eyes bright.

"What's your name, stranger?"

The name of Greg's eldest brother left his mouth. "Carius."

"Mm. Good name."

"Thanks. It was a birthday present." Greg gave her a sideways glance, tipping back the last of his stew. "Are you Narri?" he asked, wiping his mouth.

She blinked. "I am."

"Thought so." He reached for his ale. "Gunjar says hi."

Narri tutted, rising from her seat.

"I bet he does," she sighed, and slinked off across the tavern.

 

*

 

_Going to have to get my story straight._

Greg laid the armour across the end of his bed, watching the metal fittings shine in the candlelight.

_Can't keep dodging the question when people ask what I'm doing here..._

'Travelling' was starting to look pretty suspicious. People didn't seem to be fooled by 'looking for work' either, even though it was absolutely the truth. He was going to need a decent reason to have left the prosperous heartland of the Empire for their one province now in open rebellion.

 _Relatives?_ he thought.

_Friends in Solitude?_

_Starting up a business, maybe... wanted my help..._

He decided he'd let it brew in his head overnight, and see what he woke up with in the morning.

For now, he needed his sleep.

Easing onto the bed felt better than anything that had happened to him in all his years of marriage. Greg groaned, dropped his head back against the straw-stuffed pillow and let the weight flood from his muscles into the bed, panting a little in sheer bloody relief. He'd never realised how much he _loved_ reindeer pelts. The fur against his bare back was the softest thing under the sky, and if he had the strength to move, he'd have squirmed just to feel it.

As his body pulsed with pain and joy, and the candlelight flickered across his closed eyelids, Greg took what felt like his first breath in weeks. It flooded his every nerve with comfort.

_It's all up from here._

_Problems all behind me now._

What came before was over. Whatever the morning brought, his fate would be his own. There was just him, the night ahead and the dawn to come, and it would always be this way.

With his last strength he leant over, and huffed out the candle.

 

*

 

_18th of Last Seed, 4E 201._

_I will go tonight._

_I've thought about the matter continually for days now. I believe flight is my only option. I cannot stay here. The man will never leave me in peace._

_It breaks my heart to write these words, but I see no other course of action._

_My position has been the source of all my pride for many years. The jarl's authority provided me with everything I could hope for, and my life has been comfortable and quiet._

_But with his nephew now succeeding him, my contentment has come to an end._

_It pains me to think how hard I've strived to avoid any involvement in this wretched war. But it seems the conflict will now reach into even such a trivial life as mine. The Empire seeks to tighten its grip on Falkreath - and so it displaces the jarl in favour of his vicious bastard of a nephew, who would sooner slit the throat of every citizen in his hold than give up his supply of Imperial wine - and so now I flee my home under cover of darkness._

_I've gathered those possessions I can't bear to leave. Most of it must be lost. My beloved books - my heart is tearing itself apart - but I have to travel light. It will aid me if they don't realise immediately that I've fled. The further I can get from Falkreath before he looks for me, the better._

_From here I'll travel to Whiterun. I'll take the western road through the forest, then across the plains. A dangerous road, but they're more likely to assume I've made my escape east towards Helgen. With luck on my side I'll be far from his reach before he even knows that I've gone._

_From Whiterun... perhaps north to Winterhold, to the college? Maybe there will still be a place for me._

_There is no place left for me here._

_As recompense for what I've suffered, with a nod to my many years of loyalty, and without the smallest shred of regret, I will be taking with me a portion of his personal wealth. Fair payment, for services rendered._

_I will take this journal, too. If the gods are kind, I'll be at liberty long enough to make another entry._

_Here ends the era of my life when I was safe and happy._

_Here begins the bravest thing I've ever done._

 


	4. Jarl

Greg woke up warm, buried beneath a thick layer of reindeer furs, and with the scent of frying bacon wafting beneath the door.

Eyes still closed, he nuzzled into the furs and grinned.

Before he could eat, there was something he needed to do.

As he left his room, dressed and well-rested, the innkeeper glanced up from the griddle. Her eyes shone and she smiled.

"Good morning," she said. "Heading out early?"

"Just for a bit," Greg replied, grinning. "I'll be back soon. Save me some?"

"I'll try."

"Thanks. Whereabouts is the Temple of Mara?"

She thought about it for a second, turning the bacon with a fork. "Riften," she said. 

"'Riften'?" Greg blinked.  _ It's in another village?  _ "How far's that?"

"Four days east to the mountains," she said. "Three, if you're lucky with the weather. When you're past them, it's another ten days or so... but there's bandits in the hills, so be careful."

"It's - wait - that's the  _ nearest?  _ Another  _ city?"  _ Greg stared at her, horrified. "She's the mother goddess! Does nobody ever fall in love in this town?"

"You could try the Temple of the Divines," she said.

_ Bloody hell.  _ "Right. Good. Where's that?"

"Solitude," she said. "Take you a couple of weeks. Easiest road is up to Whiterun, then over the plains to Morthal - those swamps are nasty, though. You shouldn't go alone."

_ Fuck me up.  _

"Are you kidding?" She didn't look as if she was. "Surely there's a  _ shrine _ somewhere."

"Only shrine in Falkreath is out by the graveyard," she shrugged. "North west of here."

_ They've put her shrine in a damn graveyard?  _

"Right," said Greg, warily. "Thanks. I'll... go check it out."

 

*

 

Falkreath was close and cosy, and pretty in a quiet sort of way. In winter, when the ivy faded to green and all the trees were bare, Greg imagined it would get a little bleak here. Right now the pops of purple from the thistles were cheering, and everything seemed to have taken a deep breath after the night's heavy rain. The houses were squat, with a curious solidity to them, fashioned out of rounded river stones and with wattle-and-daub fences beside each one to keep animals in - chickens, the odd cow. A single goat was wandering the cobbled main road, blarting in confusion at his newfound freedom. 

Nobody seemed in a rush to round him up. Guards were strolling; people were out sweeping their steps in the early morning light.

_ Not the kind of place where much happens, then. _

_ Probably just what I need right now. _

For such a small town, the graveyard seemed pretty huge.  _ Wars,  _ Greg thought dimly, as he followed the path towards the only stone structure he could see.  _ Fighting over the Cyrodiil border.  _ The map of Tamriel had been redrawn many times over the centuries, and here laid those people who died to shift the line an inch or two. 

As he neared the stone building, and caught sight of the small shrines outside it, Greg's heart sank in his chest. 

There were two of them, identical, one either side of the door.

Both were to Arkay - God of the cycle of life and death.  _ "God of Don't Get Comfy,"  _ his eldest brother used to say.

_ No wonder it's so bloody bleak around here... _

As soon as he thought it, Gregory could almost feel the clip his long-dead grandmother would have imparted to his right ear. In the back of his heart, he heard her voice say,  _ "We all belong to Arkay in the end, Gori. Get down on your knees." _

Trying not to smile, Greg made his way over.

It took him a few minutes to realise why kneeling here, studying Arkay's symbol carved from its deep purple stone, made him feel so unsettled. 

By rights, Arkay should have taken ownership of him several times in the last few days. He'd cheated death. He'd had his head on the block. The axe was ready to swing. Arkay's law was mortality - inevitable, inescapable and unchanging - and sitting in contemplation of that didn't seem right this morning. 

Whichever god was in dominion of his life right now, it wasn't Arkay.

For the memory of his grandmother, Greg laid his hands upon the god's sigil.

"Come to me, Arkay," he recited from memory, quietly, "for without you, there is neither breath nor beginning, nor can any man live, love, or learn without the spark of your spirit."

He supposed a death of sorts  _ had  _ occurred - the death of a way of a life, and the beginning of a new one. Arkay had always seemed a bit more literal and sober to Greg than all that. It didn't hurt to pay his respects, though.

After a few minutes more he rose to his feet, brushed off his knees, and made his quiet way back between the graves. 

It seemed like he'd be holding onto Mara's gifts for a little longer than he'd hoped.

_ Means I'll have more to give you, when I get there. _

He'd passed a general goods shop on the way here. There'd be nothing for Mara there, but there'd be supplies that he needed. Maybe it was time to swap the orc's stolen gold for something useful.

 

*

 

The shop was called Gray Pine Goods. It was a well-stocked little place, plenty of food and equipment, and as Greg let himself in, he found a blonde man leaning against the counter. The guy was beefy and blonde and rather ugly, hair to his shoulders, with a forehead so heavy it had flattened his features into a permanent frown. 

He eyed Greg without a smile as he stepped through the door. 

"What d'you need, stranger?"

"Just passing through." Greg gave him a hopeful smile. "Wanted to stock up on food. Few carrots, dried beef maybe... a cheese wheel or two."

The shopkeeper grunted. 

"Well met," he said, and reached for the shelf behind him, gathering up the produce. "Unlike my brother, I've no dislike of strangers. Met lots of 'em while I was a Stormcloak. Ten septims for all this."

_... alright, then... _

"Erm, good. Can I take a few potatoes too?"

"Sure. Eleven septims." As the shopkeeper turned around, Greg caught the hooded glance given to his clothing. "Anything else you need?"

Realisation dawned.

_ Imperial armour. _

_ Divines save my sanity. This bloody war. _

"Erm - yeah - listen, is there a blacksmith in town?" 

"Down the main road," the shopkeeper said, still frowning. He watched Greg put the money on the counter. "Guy called Lod."

"Right. Thanks very much."

As Greg reached for the door, the voice behind him said,

"Steal anything from my shop, and you'll regret it."

Greg's fingers tensed on the door. His shoulders set; he almost turned around. 

_ Don't,  _ he told himself.  _ Leave it. _

_ Got enough of a price on my head already. _

He breathed in, pushed open the door, and stepped back out onto the road.

 

*

 

He received a somewhat warmer welcome from the blacksmith.

"Only a hearty soul travels the roads these days," the man noted, as he showed Greg the armour he had for sale. Most of it was wildly out of his price range. "You part of the Legion?"

"No," Greg said. "Long story. Given it by a friend to keep me safe on the road... think I'm attracting trouble, though. Kinda want to stay out of it."

The blacksmith hummed.

"The war bleeds Skyrim," he said. "It bleeds her dry, and none of us are the better for it. How does some good old-fashioned steel sound? Worth every septim."

"Ahh... I'm a little low on septims right now. What's your cheapest option?"

The blacksmith's mouth shrugged. "I can do you a set in iron," he offered. "Heavy, but it'll keep you in one piece."

"Erm - maybe. How much are we talking?"

"A hundred and twenty-five, for the body. Boots and bracers'll cost you extra, of course. Then there's the helmet."

_ Bollocks.  _ "Right. Maybe I'll... come back."

"I've got some old hide armour lying around," the blacksmith said. "Not as good as what you're wearing, but... should fit you."

Greg wrestled with the thought for a moment, uneasy. He needed all the protection he could get, and hide armour was little better than clothing - but at least he wouldn't get battered by some surly shopkeeper.  _ Gods almighty. Nearly executed as a Stormcloak. Now threatened for being an Imperial.  _

_ This country is a mess. _

"Sure," he said at last, and with a heavy heart he reached for his meagre stock of gold. "Hide armour. Great."

As he handed over the septims, the blacksmith seemed to notice the change in his face.

"You looking for some work?" the man asked, tucking the coins away inside his apron.

Greg's heart tightened. "As it happens, I am."

"Done any smithing? Those shoulders look like they've got some muscle in them..."

"Willing to learn. Sure I can swing a hammer."

The blacksmith smiled, amused. "Good," he said. "I've got an order of iron daggers to fill for the jarl's steward. Give me a hand for the day, and I'll turn that hide armour into studded for you. What d'you say?"

"Stendarr's balls.  _ Please." _

"Ha! I like you, traveller. Fetch me those iron ingots from the corner, and I'll show you what to do."

 

*

 

"Falkreath seems quiet," Greg remarked not long after midday, as they rested together on the bench beside the forge. His forearms were shining with sweat, but the coolness of the day had kept him comfortable as they worked. Lod had brought a hunk of bread for them to share from inside the house. 

"Only inside the gates," the blacksmith said, smiling as he tore the loaf in two. "Much of Falkreath hold is wilderness. There's plenty of trouble to be had."

"Trouble?"

"Bandits. Beasts. Folk with their eye on a fast coin."

Greg smiled a little. "Whole world's full of  _ them."  _

The blacksmith grunted his agreement.

They ate together for a while in silence, watching the townsfolk pass by. A few of them called out to greet Lod. Greg returned their curious glances with a smile, pretty certain this was the sort of town where news of  _ a stranger  _ was news indeed.

"Does any trouble ever get inside the gates?" he asked, as they got up from the bench to return to the forge.

Lod gave him a look of quiet humour.

"Enough to keep the graveyard full. Here - you can start sharpening those daggers we've finished."

 

*

 

"Could've been custom-made for you." Lod tightened the leather strap across Greg's chest. "Light enough to help you move, too. Swordsmen need to be able to move."

"You're sure I can take this?"

Lod's eyes wrinkled at the edges. "Honest pay for honest work. Deliver those daggers to the jarl for me, and I'll see if I have some better gauntlets in the back for you."

Greg felt his heart lift. "Are you serious?" he said. "Thank you - I mean it."

"You're a hard-worker," the blacksmith laughed. "Gods know it goes unrewarded too often in this world... I'm glad to pay for it fairly."

Something in his voice caught Greg's ear. "Yeah?"

Lod smiled - and though his eyes were sad, they were warm. 

"I was Dengeir's personal guard for years," he said. "Risked my hide more than once to protect him."

"Dengeir?"

"The jarl. Well... the  _ former  _ jarl..."

A conversation of the previous night stirred in the back of Greg's memory. "He's - been replaced by his nephew, right? Quite recently."

"Hmn. Siddgeir." Lod began wrapping their fresh-forged iron daggers in leather, tying them in bundles of three. "Damn Empire. Wanting to keep their hold on Falkreath. Dengeir was a supporter of the Stormcloaks, but Siddgeir... well. Let's say he's cut from a different cloth."

Greg bit the inside of his cheek. "Is he a good jarl?"

"Too young to be a good anything yet," Lod said. "Claims Dengeir stepped down willingly because he's too old to rule the hold... seems like a cosy excuse to me."

"I get the feeling you're not a fan of the new guy."

"Ah. Holding my tongue," the blacksmith said, and smiled. "Sure you'll form your own opinion of him when you get there."

 

*

 

The jarl's longhouse was easy to find. It was the largest building in Falkreath, impressively built with three gabled roofs, and banners outside it bearing the town's stag sigil. 

As Greg approached, the guard on duty stepped forward with his shield raised.

"Halt. State your business."

"For the jarl," Greg said, and nodded at the small handcart he was pulling. "Iron daggers. They're from Lod."

"Ah right, yeah... Nenya said we were expecting those. Fine. You'd better go on in."

He gave Greg a hand up the steps, then pushed open the door.

Inside the longhouse, an argument was taking place. Though the hall itself was huge, with a long fire pit glowing beneath a pitched ceiling, the shouting nearly filled the space.

"And  _ exactly _ how much is missing?"

"We think about five thousand, my jarl."

_ "Five thousand!" _

"From what I can see. Obviously I can't give you an  _ exact - " _

"And when did this happen?"

"We're not certain. I've spoken to the - "

"You mean it could have been missing for  _ weeks?"  _ demanded the male voice, and though Greg did his best to keep his head down as he approached, he couldn't help but steal a glance. The speaker was a young man of almost painfully high-born elocution, attired in embroidered gold and orange cloth, with fur-topped leather boots and a jewelled green head-band. "Do you not  _ check it? _ You're supposed to be responsible for this household, aren't you? And now _ five thousand septims _ have just vanished from our funds?"

"They've... not vanished from the household funds. They've vanished from your own personal - "

_ "What?!" _

"I'm sorry, my jarl." His steward was a high elf, her clothing drab and practical in brown wool. She looked like she was close to collapse. "I don't know how this has happened. I've spoken to the servants, but none of them have - "

"Wait." The jarl's jaw visibly clenched. "Has he reappeared yet?"

"Has who reappeared, my lord?"

"You know very well who! Has he been located?"

"Jarl Siddgeir - I'm sure you're not suggesting that - "

"What else is there to suggest? This is him. I  _ know _ it. By the gods, he's robbed me and flown in the night!"

"My lord, there's no evidence at all that that's the case. His possessions are still in his room. And after all his years of loyal service - "

As Greg's handcart let out a perishing squeak, the argument skidded to a halt. They turned sharply towards the interruption. 

Greg winced.

"S-Sorry... iron daggers. They're from Lod." He directed his gaze through instinct to the steward. "Asked me to fetch them round."

It took her a second, but she caught up. She pressed her slender fingertips to her temple. 

"Yes - iron daggers - of course. Will you kindly bring them this way, please? I'll show you to the stores."

The jarl snapped at her, unimpressed. "Then return here, Nenya. This matter is  _ not _ concluded."

"Yes, my jarl." Wearily she beckoned to Greg, and led him towards a side door off the hall.

As Greg followed her, he saw the jarl's head turn - watching him from the room.

"Bad time?" he said to the steward, gingerly, as she hung back to help him lift the cart down a step. 

"We're experiencing a few hiccoughs," she said. "Nothing serious, though." Greg didn't believe it for a moment. "I didn't realise Lod had taken on an apprentice."

"Oh. No, I'm not - I'm just passing through. Offered me some work for the day."

"A traveller?" she said. "Rare in Falkreath. What brings you to Skyrim?"

"The weather?" said Greg, and it earned him a small laugh. The room she led him into was just off the kitchens, crammed with general provisions of all kinds - barrels, crates and boxes. "Not to mention the friendly locals..."

"Ah... yes... the Nords aren't very amenable to outsiders at the moment. The war has made everyone wary."

"Yeah, I'm learning that." As she cleared a space on a shelf, transferring old iron pans into an empty barrel, Greg watched with care. "Did I - hear you've been robbed in the night? Sorry. Couldn't help overhearing."

"We've - misplaced some assets, that's all. I'm sure there's been a harmless error."

"Five thousand septims is a lot to 'misplace'..."

"Fortunate that it's not your concern," she said, and gave him a pointed look. "The jarl would appreciate your discretion on this, obviously. What you've overheard is a developing situation, traveller. I hope you understand that."

Greg hesitated. "Did he say someone's gone missing, too?"

Her mouth tightened. "Could you transfer the daggers to this shelf, please? Thank you."

Greg took the hint. 

"Sorry," he said. He reached down into the handcart, and started lifting the leather-wrapped bundles onto the shelf. "Anything I can do to help?"

At first, he thought she was just going to ignore him. 

Then she said, her voice small, "I doubt so."

When Greg was finished, she took a few coins from the purse on her belt.

"Here," she said. "For your trouble."

"Oh - no, you don't have to do that. Lod's already paying me."

Her mouth quirked. "You're very honest," she noted, and pressed the coins into his hands. "You might want to work on that. It shan't end well for you. What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't. It's - Carius."

"Hmm. Well, 'Carius'... welcome to Falkreath - and thank you for your help. Allow me to show you out."

As they approached the hall once more, the sounds of another commotion became apparent. Nenya muttered some quiet despair beneath her breath and sped up, hurrying Greg along.

In his steward's absence, the jarl was now haranguing someone who looked to Greg like a captain of the guards. 

"And what sort of 'trouble' requires  _ every single guard  _ to stay in Falkreath, might I ask?"

"We don't know, my jarl. But whatever it is, it's left Helgen in ruins."

Greg's stomach tightened. He kept his eyes down and his mouth shut. Whether they'd believe it was a dragon, he didn't know - but the question,  _ 'And what were you doing in Helgen?'  _ wasn't one he wanted to answer right now.

"I don't believe it," the jarl said, sharply. 

His captain of the guards visibly bit his cheek. "That's your choice, my jarl. But there's not a building undamaged, and my scouts found no survivors. They said the bodies were piled up in the streets, black and burned - men, women and children. There are claw marks in the ground big enough to pick up carts."

_ "Claw marks?" _

"Yes. Until we know what's happened, we need our men at their posts and vigilant."

The jarl's expression worked. 

"This message," he said, furiously brandishing a scroll, "is of  _ paramount - " _

Nenya intervened. "What message is that, my jarl?"

Siddgeir turned to her with a lofty expression, lifting his nose for the express purpose of looking down it at her. 

"The message that will apprehend a criminal," he said, coldly, "who has quite obviously now fled Falkreath."

"My lord, there's no reason to believe that - "

"No," the jarl said to her, sharp.  _ "Enough." _ He turned back to the captain of the guards. "Now you listen to me.  _ I am your jarl.  _ If I tell you to pull a man from his post, you pull a man from his post. Do you understand?"

The captain took a moment to gather his patience. "Sorry, my jarl. I'm not sure  _ you  _ understand. Helgen was standing four days ago. Now it's in ruins. I'm not pulling a single pair of eyes from our walls. Send a servant."

"The woods are dangerous for a servant, my lord," Nenya said at once, her voice rising. "We've had new reports of bandits watching the - "

"I'll go," said Greg.

Silence dropped.

Every pair of eyes turned to look at him. At a glance Greg took in their expressions - the captain, quizzical; Nenya, pale; finally the young jarl, with a growing smile.

"Step forward, stranger," the jarl said. "The rest of you leave."

The captain returned his helmet to his head, turned and marched from the room, accompanied by the other guards. Their armoured footsteps echoed after them, drowning out the sound of their muttering.

The jarl's eyes narrowed at his steward. 

"I'm including  _ you  _ in 'the rest of you'," he intoned.

Nenya lowered her gaze. 

"Yes, my lord," she said, and returned through the door to the kitchens.

Siddgeir rolled his eyes. He drifted over to his throne and relaxed himself within it, affecting a lazy slump.

"Come here," he ordered, his eyes bright. 

A little smirk played about his mouth as Greg approached.

"Who are you?" he enquired.

Greg kept his face as neutral as he could. "Carius, my lord," he said. "From Cyrodiil. Anvil."

"Ah... a man of the Empire. Excellent." The jarl eyed his armour, the sword at his side. "You're a traveller, are you?"

_ I am now.  _ "And looking for work."

"Mm." Siddgeir lifted a hand from the arm of his chair, idly rubbing his fingers together. "Do you know who I am?"

Greg had the feeling he was well aware Greg knew. He just liked people telling him. "Jarl of Falkreath. 'Siddgeir', if I'm right."

Siddgeir smirked. 

"You've been making inquiries about me, have you?" he murmured. "How gratifying."

Greg wasn't sure how to answer that without being rude. He decided a change of subject might be better. "You're young for a jarl," he remarked.

"My uncle Dengeir was jarl until a short time ago," Siddgeir said, coolly. "His old age and failing health caught up with him, and he stepped down. He now serves us honorably as thane... and to the  _ great _ benefit of the hold, I now serve as jarl."

He sat back in his chair with a smile, terribly pleased with himself.

Greg kept a hold of his eyebrows, forcing them not to lift.

"Must be difficult," he said. "All that responsibility."

"Difficult?" Siddgeir's brow crumpled. "I am  _ a jarl. _ I eat the most succulent meat, drink the finest ale and hunt with the best hounds in the hold. Meanwhile, my very capable steward sees to the needs of the smallfolk and ensures that Falkreath runs smoothly." 

He reached beside his throne, where a bronze plate held a bunch of grapes for him. 

"Being a jarl could hardly be simpler," he said, smirking, and tossed a few into his mouth. "You should try it sometime," he said as he chewed.

_ You should try not being a prick. Might suit you. _

"Can you ride a horse?" Siddgeir enquired.

"Yes." Greg supposed a lie built on top of truth would hold up better anyway. "Ex-Legion. Extensive combat training, including mounted."

"Mounted, mm?" the jarl murmured. "That's good."

He stirred, stretching a little in his throne, and picked up the wrapped scroll between his fingers.

"Do you know the roads around these parts?" he asked.

"I know they're dangerous," Greg said, with a slight shrug. "I'll still ride them." He glanced at the scroll. "You're wanting to track someone down, are you?"

The jarl frowned. 

"Of sorts," he said. "The criminal in question is possessed of considerable cunning. Indeed, I don't think he went a day without finding some way to show us all how terribly clever he was... he also has the capacity to be dangerous."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Dangerous?"

"Mnh. A mage." Siddgeir's jaw rolled, his eyes hardening. "My court wizard. My  _ faithless _ court wizard, it transpires. His loyalty to my uncle seems not to have made the necessary transition to me. The man was not in his room this morning, and while his effects appear still to be here, he himself has yet to surface. The news that a  _ considerable _ amount of gold is now missing from my personal treasury leads me to a single conclusion. Do you understand me?"

Greg quietly pressed his teeth into his tongue. "I think so."

"Good. Now listen carefully." The jarl sat forward, gesturing with the scroll. "The wretch has had  _ at least _ ten hours' start on you. He'll have taken the road through Helgen. If you're fortunate, this supposed 'trouble' there will have delayed him."

"You - want me to bring him back?"

"No," the jarl said, his eyebrows drawing together. "I don't want you to catch him. I want you instead to go ahead to Whiterun, where he is almost certainly headed - as fast as is in your capacity." 

Siddgeir tipped his chin to the side.

"You'll deliver this message..." He held up the scroll with a flourish. "... directly into the hands of Jarl Balgruuf. The city guard will then watch for the traitor to arrive. As soon as he does, they'll apprehend him and return him to face my justice."

As Greg reached for the scroll, Siddgeir pulled it teasingly away from his hand. 

His eyes glittered as he watched Greg. "It is  _ vital  _ that you reach Whiterun before he does," he murmured.

Greg wondered why a prickle was passing down his neck. "Fine."

"It seems that with this unspecified  _ 'trouble'  _ in Helgen," the jarl added, darkly, "you will have to ride west instead. Mm? Through the forest, up into the hills, then down across the plains to Whiterun. The road will take you directly if you stick to it."

"I - haven't a horse of my own. If you could - "

"Yes, yes. Of course you shall have a horse. Nenya will take you to the stables and get you the fastest one. When you've delivered the message to Balgruuf, return here and you shall have your payment.  _ Significant _ payment, my man. Yes?"

Greg reached again for the message.

Once more, Siddgeir withheld it. 

"I might have some future tasks for you too," he murmured. His eyes gleamed. "I am a generous benefactor of those who aid me. I  _ hate  _ people who waste my time. Do we understand each other, stranger?"

"Yes."

"Yes,  _ what?" _

Greg's jaw set. "Yes, my jarl."

"Good." Siddgeir finally released the scroll. "On your way, then. Nenya!"

It was a few moments before his steward reappeared, now holding a quill and a list of provisions. 

"Yes?"

"Take the traveller to the stables," Siddgeir said, airily, and reached for his grapes once more. "Get him what he needs. He leaves for Whiterun immediately. And furnish him with a decent sword, will you? I'm most keen that he makes it there alive."

 

*

 

_ So much for settling in Falkreath.  _ As a stable boy helped Greg up onto a sturdy black stallion, and handed him a fresh-forged steel sword, Greg recalled that two days ago he'd been sitting in a prison cart in rags.

The steward approached, carrying a bulging traveller's pack.

As she attached it to his saddle, she said, "Provisions - torches, rope. Food. Blankets."

"Thanks..." Greg wrapped the reins about his hands. "Don't suppose you've got a cloak somewhere? Keep me warmer on the road?"

She sent the stable boy with a sharp glance, who returned with one almost at once - thick black wool, heavy fur around the shoulders and a hood for the rain.

"There," she said, passing it up. She turned to the boy. "Please go and tell the jarl that his rider has left."

The boy nodded, bowed and rushed out.

"Anything I should know about the road?" Greg asked, checking his sword was secure at his side. "Anywhere I should avoid, if I want to - "

"Quickly." She held something out. It was a small leather pouch. "Take it, stranger."

Greg hesitated. He took the pouch, staring down at her. "What - "

"Open it."

Concerned, Greg did so.

The glint of gold chain, and the flash of gemstones from within, nearly stopped his heart. "Whoa! What's - "

"It is valuable," the steward said, tense.  _ "Very _ valuable. You'll earn far more from selling that necklace than the jarl will give you in reward."

She stared up at him, her face set.

"Throw that scroll into the first ravine you pass," she said. "Do  _ not  _ go to Whiterun. Take the horse, take the sword, take the necklace, and do not come back."

Greg felt his heart fill with ice. "Why?"

"I'm not going to discuss it." She didn't let go of his gaze. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes pained. "Just take what you've been given and go. If you return here the jarl will give you a pitiful reward, take back the horse, then attempt to bully you into his bed. There's nothing left for you. Is that clear? Nothing. For mercy's sake, traveller, do as I say."

Greg's breath caught in his throat.

"Why has the court wizard run?" He searched her face. "Why are you helping him escape?"

Nothing crossed her eyes. 

"War has made us wary, stranger," she said. "We must all now look after our own." 

She stepped back from the horse.

"Go," she said. "Now. And may the gods guide your path to a better place than this."

 


	5. Road

As Greg rode out beneath the western gate, a pale imprint of the moon was just rising over the pines. His head buzzed with thoughts like flies. They flew with him, as fast as the horse.

_'For mercy's sake, traveller, do as I say.'_

The necklace now secure around his neck, tucked safe beneath his clothing, would have been enough to buy him steel armour - a full set. Perhaps even the shield, too.

The horse he rode was worth twice that again.

_'Take the horse, take the sword, take the necklace and do not come back.'_

If he were a dishonest man, he might have been thanking his lucky stars right now - but something was buried in the back of his heart, something that made him incredibly uneasy. Five thousand septims was a hell of a prize for a thief to carry off. You could buy a home for that, in a good city with a good life around you.

To aid someone in that scale of theft, then throw yet more gold at anyone sent after him...

Something wasn't right.

The jarl's steward must have had her reasons. Without them, Greg found his thoughts charging into wild and worrying places. Half of his heart wanted to ride back to the jarl at once, to warn him that something underhand was at work in his household.

Then, the jarl himself was pretty difficult to pity. His wandering eyes and smug little smiles seemed to be clinging to Greg, even an hour's ride out of Falkreath. He wouldn't want to be alone behind a lockable door with the man. He knew that much.

_Divines help me... what do I do?_

As he rode, and the moon drifted higher over the pines, he tried to think.

He had a feeling there were no clean hands in this situation. Five thousand septims was huge, and from the jarl's personal treasury too - but then Nenya struck him as a sensible and thoughtful steward. She was well-spoken of in Falkreath. The jarl certainly wasn't.

It didn't mean the man deserved to be robbed by a trusted advisor, though.

Greg wished he could dispel the sight of her face from his memory - the urgency in her voice. _'War has made us wary, stranger. We must all now look after our own.'_ That wasn't the plea of someone trying to cover up a heist. It was someone aiding the flight of a victim, a friend.

_Gods, I should have stayed - spoken to - tried to find out the truth of..._

It was too late for that now. The road was beneath him, the forest was all around him, and Whiterun laid ahead.

The jarl's scroll was secure in a bag on his saddle.

Greg wasn't sure he wanted to consign it to a ravine just yet. There was more to this situation than he knew, and while he wouldn't just hand it over without a thought, he didn't think it was wise to get rid of it either.

Telling himself that Whiterun was days away, and he'd have plenty of time to think, Greg dragged his unsettled thoughts onto making good progress through the night. He'd ride until the horse started to tire, then take a few hours to rest.

_My fortunes are increasing, at least._

A horse, good armour - good steel in his hand - a warm cloak and gold in his pockets.

Two days ago he was in rags, resting his neck upon the block.

He didn't really dare to think where the next few days would take him.

 

*

 

_20th of Last Seed. Early morning._

_By Stendarr's grace I remain at large._

_My progress through the forest has been heartening so far. I've seen no sign of pursuers, but I can't afford to assume that will continue. I've driven the horse perhaps a little hard. I travelled through the night and the day, then took shelter off the road in order to rest. It is now just before dawn. I'm preparing to leave at first light._

_These first few days are critical. Each passing hour is another hour for Siddgeir to give up hope of retrieving me._

_Retrieving the gold, at least._

_If I'm tracked it's likely to be hold guards. If I'm lucky they won't be too proud._

_I've started to experience a considerable amount of guilt at leaving Nenya to deal with Siddgeir alone. I only hope she seeks her own exit from Falkreath soon - and I hope she understands why I've made this choice._

_Perhaps when I'm in Whiterun, safe, I'll send a courier with a message to let her know I'm alive and well. I doubt she would betray me to Siddgeir. My only fear is the message being intercepted. Perhaps it will have to wait until I reach Winterhold - or indeed, wherever the gods see fit to sweep me._

_For now I will return to the road, and pray for fair conditions._

 

*

 

Greg didn't linger once the sun was up. He'd found a map among the provisions Nenya had given him, and from the look of things he had several days' journey to go. The road he was on snaked its way west through forest, then up towards mountains to the north - he hoped the plains beyond the hills were as flat as the map made them out to be. The extent of the forest wasn't marked, but he assumed that it reached the fells at least.

The route the fugitive should have taken bent east, instead of west. It was shorter and straighter - a three-stage hop between four settlements.

 _Not that Helgen's much of a settlement anymore,_ Greg thought, with his tongue in his cheek, studying the town's position on the map.

He wondered where the dragon had ended up by now - and what had brought it to Helgen in the first place. There couldn't have been much to attract it there. If it was after people, there were bigger settlements it could have preyed on - and Greg didn't remember seeing the creature eating anyone. It just seemed to be chasing people like mice, burning them as if for sport.

 _Mountains?_ he thought vaguely, eyeing the many hills that dominated the south of Skyrim. _Makes sense they'd nest in the mountains... big predator like that..._

 _But then, why not west?_ The land around a city labelled 'Markarth' was one enormous cluster of hills, dotted with settlements full of people.

_Who knows._

Greg rolled up the map, stuffing it back in his satchel.

_Whiterun first. Then ethical dilemma. Then the rest of the world._

He was no closer to a decision of what to do when he got to Whiterun. Falling to sleep last night, he'd had half a mind to lie in wait there for the wizard himself - ask the guy what he thought he was doing, what gave him the right to five thousand septims of someone else's money - why a trustworthy and sensible steward thought he had that right, too. The jarl's scroll probably had a written description of the man at least.

Sadly, the thing was sealed with bronze caps. Greg could get them off and read it if he wanted - but sealing it again would be harder.

 _Whiterun first,_ he told himself firmly.

_Then ethical dilemma._

_Then the rest of the world._

The road curved north throughout the day. He felt it rising as they went, heading up towards hills he couldn't yet see through the forest.

At nightfall, he made camp beside a small stream. He built a fire and had some food, then found a fallen branch to whittle with. After ten minutes of peeling away the bark with his knife, studying the wood beneath, he decided it was about the right size for a bear.

When he was a boy, his grandmother told him most animals belonged to Kynareth.

Mother bears belonged to Mara.

 

*

 

_20th of Last Seed. Nightfall._

_I've reached the watchtower. No sign of pursuit, though I fear the steep ascent has taken its toll on the horse. She slowed dramatically into the afternoon. I've been forced to stop completely overnight while she rests. I would rather not linger in the hills. Wolves and bandits are rife. But needs must._

_The descent will cause its own problems. The cart is heavy and she isn't the youngest of horses. I couldn't risk taking any of the others. Their loss would have been noticed almost at once. When I reach the plains everything should be easier. I hope to the gods it will be easier._

_Siddgeir will have certainly realised by now what I've done._

_I hope he is angry._

 

*

 

Greg woke up to the first few sports of rain. It continued as he packed up his camp, saddled the horse again and set off, his hood pulled low against the growing downpour. Shortly after midday the road began a steep incline, leading him up through the trees into the hills - and exposing him fully to the storm clouds overhead.

At sunset, damp and weary, he came to a ruined watchtower. There was still an hour or two of light in the sky, but his thighs were killing him. The rain had made his cloak heavy, and even a partial roof was a blessing right now. He decided to make use of the shelter, tethered his horse under the trees nearby, and started collecting together a fire.

Siddgeir's wizard was probably in Riverwood by now - warm, dry, drinking mead in the tavern.

 _Then again,_ Greg thought, _if the guy is half as cunning as Siddgeir made out, he'll be across the border and into Cyrodiil. Start a new life and disappear._

_That's what the smart ones do... right?_

 

*

 

_21st of Last Seed._

_Greatly concerned. Horse reluctant to travel for more than an hour at a time. Progress has been desperately slow and I haven't the faintest idea what to do for her. Without her I can't even hope to reach the plains, let alone Whiterun. There isn't a settlement for days yet._

_I must try to stay calm._

_There's been no sign that Siddgeir has set anyone on my tail. I'll have to resolve myself to travelling shorter distances each day. Otherwise I risk being trapped in the hills alone. Better to reach Whiterun gradually than never reach it._

_All the same. Unsettled._

_Tired. Heavy rain all day. Poor sleep and aching from the hard ground. This is not my natural domain. Desperation has driven me here and I must let desperation drive me through. Night has now fallen. I'm aware of the strain it's causing me to cast even the small amount of illumination needed to write, and my imagination is quite happy to turn every breath of wind into howls._

_At least I have escaped one predator._

_Somehow a better fate. Kynareth's creatures. Better a meal to a starving beast than sport to a cruel and bored little boy._

_Divines help me._

 

*

 

Greg's clothing was still damp by dawn. Tired, aching all over and wishing he'd had just one more night beneath reindeer furs at the inn, he saddled his horse and set off from the tower.

Though rain wasn't falling, there was plenty of damp in the air. The cold had gotten into his bones now. You could only stare at trees for so many hours a day before you started to miss the sight of buildings, even buildings in a place where nothing ever happened.

_Could've stayed, got Lod to train me up... worked for food and lodgings. 'Gregori the blacksmith'. Brothers would have loved that. Covered in soot and grime, forearms like oak trees._

_Could still do it when I go back._

_If I go back._

As he followed the mountain road, he found himself thinking about the jarl. The man had seemed to care more about retrieving the wizard than retrieving his gold. It made Greg wonder how much was in the jarl's treasury, that the loss of five thousand septims caused him only a vengeful sort of indignation. Last night, unsettled by howling in the forest and struggling to sleep in the rain, Greg had ended up studying Nenya's ruby necklace. Engraved into the back of the gem, there were small curling symbols that he thought might be elven letters.

It hadn't belonged to the jarl, or to Falkreath.

It had belonged to her.

It was hard to handle the thought that someone stole such a huge amount of money and took off - but that in itself was now making Greg think. From what he'd heard, the court wizard had served one jarl faithfully for years on end. A new jarl had come along, and suddenly the guy was heading for the hills - with enough gold to buy a home somewhere.

Spirits low, thoughts uneasy, Greg found himself riding without the ferocity of the last few days.

At noon he stopped at a fork in the road to rest and water the horse. From looking at the map, the left hand over the stream would lead him off towards Markarth - the right hand wound onwards through the hills, then down to the plains, with Whiterun and his goal beyond.

As he sat by the roadside and ate, he tried to keep the thought out of his head - and failed.

If he was going to head off towards Solitude, this was the moment to do it.

He could pitch Siddgeir's scroll into the stream, watch the ink bleed itself away, then take his time getting to Markarth. It looked like a long road, but he had all the provisions he'd need. He suspected Nenya had given him so much on purpose. She'd tried to make this decision as easy for him as she could.

And it wasn't easy to turn down.

He didn't really want to see her face when he returned to the jarl and reported that the scroll was delivered. He didn't really want to see the jarl's face, either.

Sitting here, he had every opportunity in Skyrim open to him - a road, a horse, enough gold to get him wherever he cared to go. It didn't seem like going back to Falkreath, handing over the horse and getting a pat on the head from a creep would match this.

But then, the horse wasn't his to take.

Greg was a lot of things - but not a thief.

He didn't like the idea of knowing that something belonged to someone else, but taking it anyway. He'd offered to do a job. It was an honourable job, too - alert the authorities about a fugitive. It wasn't like he'd been sent to kill someone, hurt the man. All he had to do was pass on news of what someone else had done.

He'd played a straight game all his life. He'd tried to do what was right. He gave people the benefit of the doubt, and he stuck to the law, even when there was quick money to be made - even when there was nobody watching. Something in him was still a child maybe, wanting to be the good and honest boy his grandmother was proud of. _'It's easy to be cruel, Gori. Mara saves her kindness for the kind.'_

_Stealing a horse... heading for the hills..._

_That's not how this is meant to go._

He'd kept himself within the law most of his life. One opened door, one moment's panic, and it all fell apart. He'd come to Skyrim to start again, not to become the sort of man who took on a job, borrowed a horse and made a run for it, just because things didn't add up right.

He might be a wanted man, but he was still an honourable one.

A single mistake didn't change that.

He wasn't going to take advantage of a messy situation for his own gain - no matter how great the gain. His grandmother hadn't raised him that way. Mara hadn't raised him that way.

Resolved once more, Greg got himself back on the horse.

 

*

 

The afternoon passed to the dull and wearying drum of the horse's hooves. Greg tried to be glad the rain had lifted, glad he'd settled himself to a decision, but all he could think about were the reindeer furs back at the inn. He was even tempted to push on through the night, just to get closer to the plains. The further he rode, the sooner he'd reach the city - and the sooner this would be out of his hands.

Just as he'd made up his mind to do it, something in the distance gave him pause - and as he got nearer, and realised what he was seeing, his heart kicked itself into his throat.

There was a cart at the side of the road. It looked like it had veered into a rock to avoid something. The horse was now lying lifeless beside it. Blood across the road led to another two bodies further on, smaller and black, turned onto their sides - wolves. They were young, cubs.

They too were dead.

On the ground beside the horse, a huddled figure in dark green travelling clothes sat with his head wrapped in his arms. He wasn't moving.

Greg pulled hard to slow his horse, his heart pounding. When he was close enough he let go of the reins, dismounted with a clank of his armour and hurried over, dropping to his knees beside the wounded man.

"Mara's mercy..." There was blood on his arms, bites and scratches where he'd tried to defend himself. Greg reached out to touch his elbow; the guy was shaking. "Hey, are you alright? What happened?"

The man shuddered, curling into himself with despair. He didn't make a sound.

Greg grabbed for the reins of his horse. He pulled it closer, stretched up for the pack on the saddle and detached it quickly, dragging it down to the ground. He unbuckled the fastening and rooted through, bottles clinking.

"Here..." he murmured. "Let's get something for those wounds... you're okay now. They're dead. You're gonna be alright."

The stranger shook, fingers tightening in his dishevelled auburn hair. He didn't look heavy set enough to be from Skyrim. There was something in his slender arms that made Greg wonder if he was a Breton, like his mother had been.

As he found the healing draught he was looking for, and pulled the cork out with his teeth, Greg took a glance at the lifeless horse.

"I'm sorry about your horse... did they get you anywhere else?"

The word was half-sobbed. "N-No." The stranger's fingers tightened. "No, I - I attempted to - "

"Hey... shhh, it's fine... they're dead now, right? And you're alive. That's what matters. C'mere, let me see you..."

Greg shuffled closer on his knees.

"It's alright," he murmured. "Let me look at your wounds. You'll be okay..."

As gently as he could, he eased the man's arms from around his head.

The face which appeared beneath them was pale with shock, crumpled with exhaustion and distress - and most definitely Breton. Half-elf heritage was all over the stranger's features, narrow lips and a long nose, a studious forehead, with the graceful cleverness and defined brow that Greg had always envied in his Breton relatives.

Greg looked like his Cyrodiil father, dark-eyed and heavy-handed.

As he gazed at the injured man, his pulse now quick and faint, a pair of nervous blue-grey eyes opened into his.

His heart tightened, hard.

_Mara's mercy._

 


	6. Faith

It took several seconds to catch his thoughts again, knocked out of focus by those guarded, vulnerable eyes.

They were beautiful.

"Here," Greg said, trying to keep his voice steady. He reached for the man's sleeves, rolling them back, then picked up the small glass bottle from the ground. The stranger watched him nervously as he tipped a little healing draught into his palms. "This - might sting, okay?"

A tremor passed through the stranger's arms. "A-Alright."

He didn't move as Greg applied the ointment. He just watched, pale with shock, as Greg made sure each bite was coated and the bleeding had started to slow.

"You'll need to wash those at some point, okay?" he said. "They're not too deep. Think your horse took the worst of it for you..."

The stranger glanced at his lifeless horse, shuddering. His eyes shut in despair. "Gods help me..."

"What're you transporting?" Greg asked, glancing back at the cart. "Heavy?"

"B-Books." The stranger swallowed. "I - I'm a bookseller."

Greg put two and two together. "From - Markarth, right?"

"Y-Yes." The man gazed at him, still pale with nerves and disbelief. "I was - h-headed towards Whiterun - they came from nowhere - I - I drove off the road, trying to - "

"Hey... easy... you're in one piece, aren't you? That's what's important..." Greg tried a careful smile, feeling his heart pounding against his ribs. _Gods alive. Look at you._ "D'you want some brandy? Settle your nerves a bit? Got a bottle in my bag."

The man flushed, swallowing. "Y-You are - very kind - "

"S'fine. Couldn't just drive past you, could I?" Greg searched through his pack again, found the bottle and retrieved it. "Have as much of this as you need, alright? You've had a shock."

As the man drank, his wrists shaking, Greg tore his eyes away to look back at the cart. The crates in it looked bloody heavy.

There was no way he'd get them down out of the mountains, not without a horse - and wolves would follow the blood on his clothing now. Whiterun was days away.

With a last drink, and an anxious cough, the stranger looked up at him - still nervous. The flicker of his blue-grey eyes cut Greg's breath for a second.

"Th-Thank you," the stranger said, weak. "Thank you, you're... incredibly kind..."

Greg felt his heart twist.

"S'fine," he said again, and breathed in, trying not to stare at the bookseller's eyes. _Mara, what are you doing to me?_ "You're not gonna be alright on your own, are you? Not without your horse..."

The stranger was all too aware. He shook, glancing back down at the brandy. As he uncorked it again, he mumbled, "N-No."

Greg watched him drink. He watched the muscles in his long neck work, and tried not to gaze at them; he tried not to look at the stranger's mouth, nor the shaking in his wrists, nor the colour now rising in his face.

"I'm headed to Whiterun too," he heard his mouth say. The stranger's eyes flashed quickly into his. His lips disengaged from the bottleneck. "Listen, d'you - want to share the road?"

The stranger's mouth opened.

"My horse is still in good nick," Greg explained, his pulse hitching. "Reckon there's room in your cart for two of us. And if there's wolves around... well, I can handle a sword. I can keep you safe."

The stranger looked as if he were trying to work out if this were really happening, or it was simply a near-death hallucination.

"You - you would - ?"

"Sure. Sure, why not?" Greg tried another smile. It was almost impossible not to stare into his eyes, but he didn't know where else in the world he could look right now. They were breathtaking. "Can't leave you here, can I?"

The stranger hesitated. "Most would," he said. "Without a second thought."

"I'm not most." Greg could feel his smile growing easier, warmer. "Give me a free book when we get to Whiterun."

It startled out a nervous laugh, quickly stifled. The stranger flushed a little at his own reaction, glanced at the sword by Greg's side, and said,

"You're - a mercenary?"

"Sort of." It left Greg's mouth before he could stop it. "My name's Gregori."

_Shit -_

_Shit - so much for 'Carius' -_

"M-Mycroft," the man said, and Greg immediately couldn't care less about his own name. He just wanted to hear that one, over and over and over. "You're from Cyrodiil?"

Greg smiled, not sure why the correct guess mattered so much to him. "Yeah. I am." He bit his lip. "You're a Breton."

"O-Originally. Yes."

"My mum was from Wayrest." Greg reached out his hands. "Here," he offered. "Let's get you up... d'you want another mouthful of brandy? I've got plenty of food in my bag."

"Y-You are - f-far too kind, Gregori."

_Dibella's breath._

_Say my name again._

_Please._

"Don't worry about it. Looks like you've had a rough day... had plenty of those in my time..."

Greg guided him to sit on the front of his cart, helping him up into the seat. _Mycroft._ His clothes were dull and well-worn, but his skin was clean, his hands were soft and his short beard was kept tidy and trimmed. _A bookseller from Markarth._

"D'you want some food?"

"I - i-if you're - "

Greg reached for his pack. "How d'you feel about apples?"

"I'm - fine with apples... thank you."

As Greg handed him one, placing it gently in his hands, he caught a glimpse of the amulet tucked inside Mycroft's robes - a flat brass circle etched with a triangle.

"Julianos," he said, smiling. Mycroft looked up with a flash of concern. "Sorry - scholars, right?"

After a moment, the bookseller nodded. "L-Learning. Of all kinds."

The verse rose from Greg's memory like his grandmother had taught him it yesterday.

_"'Come to me, Julianos, for without you, my wit is weak to sort the wheat from the chaff, and my eyes should neither know the true from the false, nor sense from folly, nor justice from prejudice and interest'."_

Mycroft regarded him with quiet wonder.

"Yes," he said, astonished. "Yes, that's... right." He gave a first gentle ghost of a smile - and at the sight of it, Greg realised he would never be the same person again. "You're a man of faith."

"Just raised right. S'all." Greg smiled back, his heart stirring. "Eat your apple," he said. "You're pale as death."

Mycroft dutifully took a small bite, watching Greg with the faintest flicker of amusement. He chewed, swallowed, then asked, "Which - divine do you - ?"

"Mara." _Look at you. Of course it's Mara. Who else would bring you to me?_ "Mother of us all."

Mycroft held something in his mouth for a moment. "You don't wear her amulet."

Greg felt his heart squeeze. They'd taken it off him when he was arrested. Probably sold for the good of the Empire now. Even after his wedding, he'd kept it hidden under his clothes - it hadn't felt right taking it off, as if he was done with Mara now, as if she didn't matter now there was a wife.

He wished he still had it.

"Got tiresome," he joked, gently. "People proposing all the time."

That was _definitely_ a smile now. "Th-thank you - for - "

"Any second now, you'll believe me that it's fine." Greg handed him the bottle of brandy. "You sit there and drink, alright? I'm going to get my horse hooked up to your cart. Don't you even think about trying to help."

"I shan't." Mycroft held the bottle in both hands, still watching him. "You're - certain it's - "

"Strangers aren't usually nice to each other in Skyrim, are they?"

"Not to outsiders. No."

"Good job you found another outsider then, isn't it?" Greg shrugged off his cloak, and threw it across the cart. "Have some more apple, please. We're not going before you've finished it."

 

*

 

Greg's new friend was nervous for the first few miles. He kept glancing across at Greg like he expected to be elbowed from the cart at any moment, the same look of almost bewildered wonder on his face.

"What?" Greg asked at last, casting the bookseller a smile as he rewrapped the reins around his hands.

Mycroft flushed, but returned the smile all the same.

"Marvelling at my fortunes, that's all." He studied Greg for a moment, tentative. "I'd rather started to think I was done for."

 _Ha. I know that feeling._ "Gods keep us guessing."

"So it seems."

"D'you go to Whiterun often?"

"Ah... a few times a year. Yes. Quite the journey. I've never been waylaid by wolves before."

"Are they big on books there?"

"I - wouldn't say _anywhere_ is big on books, but... I usually make a few coins. Enough to warrant the trip." Mycroft glanced down at his hands, fiddling gently with a tear in his sleeve. The tunic was ruined; he'd need a new one. "It is a pleasant city. Prosperous. Very safe."

"Yeah? M'looking forward to it."

"Have you been before?"

"No," said Greg, "not yet." The rattle of the cartwheels beneath them was oddly soothing, and the horse seemed glad of the change of pace. Greg hadn't even noticed it was peaceful up here in the mountains. "What's Markarth like?"

"Oh... vast. Very old." Mycroft pulled his feet carefully onto the seat beneath him, drawing Greg's cloak around them. "Beautiful, in an... imperious sort of way. The architecture is quite unrivalled." He gave Greg a faint smile. "You must go some day."

Greg smiled, his eyes bright. "Yeah? Put it on my list."

"Have you been in Skyrim long?"

"Not long," Greg admitted. He'd never wanted to tell someone his life story so much, nor known so certainly it would be a bad idea. "Still don't have a clue what I'm doing here, to be honest. It's a miracle I've still got a head on my shoulders."

"You seem very capable of handling yourself," Mycroft said.

Greg smiled, his heart hopping. "Glad somebody thinks so."

Mycroft smiled, too. He turned his head to watch a fox dart across the road up ahead, its orange fur gleaming in the sunlight. "What takes you to Whiterun?" he asked.

Greg decided the broad answer was probably the best one.

"Work," he said. "Just trying to earn some more gold ahead of winter... same as you, I guess."

"Whiterun is an excellent choice." Mycroft smiled again, watching him with interest. "Work is plentiful there, especially for those who are strong and hardy. I'm sure you'll do very well."

"Thanks. I hope so."

"When we arrive, I'll - be glad to recompense you for your trouble. You're very kind to come to my aid, Gregori. I'm not sure what I would have done without you."

Greg's stomach squeezed. Just hearing his name a few more times in that voice would be reward enough.

"Let me get us there safe first," he said, and dropped Mycroft a wink. _"Then_ you can thank me. I still want a free book, by the way."

Mycroft's eyes glittered. "I shall select you a suitable one."

"Short, with easy words please. Lots of pictures."

"You do yourself an injustice... a man who can quote the verses to the divines word-for-word is clearly not a blockhead."

"I'm enjoying your faith in me," Greg grinned. "Hope I can live up to it. Couple more hours and we'll have a stop, yeah? I'll take another look at those wounds for you."

 

*

 

The bites weren't so bad.

"Could have been worse..." Greg reached down to the stream, letting his palms fill up with water. He glanced into Mycroft's eyes. "Ready? Cold."

Mycroft shifted closer, keeping his forearms still.

He watched as Greg washed the wounds for him, gently.

"Keep them covered for a few days," Greg said, and dared another glance into his eyes. That gorgeous blue-grey, brighter than the sunlight on the water - it turned his smile into a grin against his will.

Mycroft smiled in return, shy.

"Realised you're lucky yet?" Greg asked.

Mycroft's fingers curled. "Extremely." He watched Greg uncap the healing draught. "And more grateful than I can say."

"I've been lucky myself lately... s'only right to share it." Greg reached for his left arm. "Brace against me, if you like. Whatever's easier."

Mycroft did so, cautiously. His slender fingers wrapped around Greg's elbow as if afraid he wasn't quite allowed.

"There we go..." Greg applied the ointment with care, taking his time. "So you're not really a wilderness person, huh?"

"You can tell?" Mycroft enquired, arching an eyebrow. Greg couldn't help but laugh. Mycroft laughed too, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yes, I'd say that's entirely fair... I'd make a poor adventurer. Books and a warm bed for me, safe inside city walls."

"Ha. Half the time, you're far safer outside the city walls than within them. Depends who you're sharing the city with."

"Yes, I suppose that's true..." Mycroft glanced at him, mouth curving. "And who you're sharing the wilderness with."

"Now you're getting it." Greg beckoned for his other arm. "C'mere. Nearly done. You don't mind driving on until nightfall, do you? We're making good progress."

"No, not at all."

"Good. We'll keep an eye out as we go for somewhere to shelter..." Greg rubbed the ointment carefully around the edge of the wounds, trying not to enjoy the now trusting grip upon his bicep. "I kinda need to get to Whiterun sooner rather than later... hope you don't mind me pushing us on."

"No, that suits me very well. I'm much the same." Mycroft smiled, looking curiously relieved. "I'm happy to keep going."

 _We'll be slower with the cart,_ Greg thought. _Heavy books._ He couldn't bring himself to mind too much.

He eased Mycroft's sleeve back across the wounds, covering them away.

"I'll let you fix those fastenings," he murmured, with a glance into the Breton's eyes. _Gods, where were you twenty years ago?_ "Scholar's fingers... not like my lumbering great paws."

Mycroft flushed as he attended to the ties, lowering his eyes. "You happen to seem rather gentle to me."

"Yeah?" _Mara, please. Don't do this to me._ "You seem like you're in need of gentle."

Mycroft's expression shuttered for a moment. "You can't imagine," he said, carefully knotting the other cuff.

"Sorry... you still a bit shaken?"

"Oh, the - yes, I'll... be a little on edge until we reach Whiterun, I fear." Mycroft glanced up, trying a smile. "My beloved city walls. Forgive me. I'm unused to peril."

"S'alright. It's smart, being on edge out here. Keeps you vigilant."

The urge to touch Mycroft - rub his arm, stroke his back - was overwhelming. It was as if Greg's hands didn't understand that this was a stranger sitting beside him, not a friend, not someone he'd known all his life.

He was going to have to watch himself, closely.

"I'll deal with peril," he said, smiling, and got to his feet. "You do delicate knots and long words. Ready to head off again?"

 

*

 

As the first deeper shades of blue found their way into the sky, they came across a short track leading off the main road. It bent around a rock formation, then passed out of sight between the trees.

Greg slowed the horse to a halt, handed Mycroft the reins and said,

"Just checking out where that leads... thinking it might be a good place to camp. Won't be a minute."

He hopped down from the cart and drew his sword with a schink.

"If you need me," he said, glancing back up, "scream."

Mycroft gave him a concerned look, fingers tightening in Greg's cloak around his shoulders. "Loudly?"

"Loudly," Greg said, and proceeded along the track.

The area took about ten minutes to scout. There was a nice sheltered cove beyond the rocks; the track then narrowed as it wriggled up towards the mountains. It was overgrown in places, with no sign of recent footfall.

"Looking good," he called, as he returned to Mycroft. His new travelling companion was checking the crates of books in the back of the cart. "Cosy and tucked away. Doesn't seem like anyone goes down there much."

"Marvellous." Mycroft closed the lid of the crate, securing the catch with care. "May I gather wood for the fire?"

Greg smiled, taking the reins of the horse in his hand. "It's alright," he said. "You don't have to do that."

"No, I... I think I should. I'd quite like to 'pull my weight'."

"Well, if you're certain... that'd be handy. Thanks."

Mycroft helped him guide the cart off the road, trundling safely up the track. "Not at all."

 

*

 

It didn't take long to get a camp set up. Greg found himself glad of the second pair of hands - even just the sight of another person made a difference. As he tethered their horse to a tree, he realised they'd be able to sleep sheltered beneath Mycroft's cart. It would be cosy under there with the two of them, but they'd be covered at least from any rain.

The fire took a little while to gather. Dry wood wasn't easy to come by, and the trees here were holding valiantly onto their branches. As the light began to fall, Mycroft laid a final armful of twigs across the pile.

"There," he said. "I believe that should be sufficient... would you mind if I take a short drink?"

"Gods, not at all. Go drink," said Greg, kneeling beside the fire as Mycroft moved over to the cart. "We've got everything set now, anyway. You can rest."

 _Good to get warm,_ he thought, and reached a hand instinctively towards the branches. _Good to have some company... especially -_

His fingers were outstretched before he realised.

Quickly he stiffened.

_Shit - hang on - I'd better not -_

He turned the stretch into brushing a damp leaf off the pile, exhaling in silence. _Stendarr's balls, that was close._

From over by the cart, there came a noise of distinct amusement.

"Gregori," Mycroft said gently, and Greg's heart twisted itself into a knot, "from a full-blooded Breton to a half... please don't now spend an hour on your knees with a striker and char-cloth. I don't think I could bear the sight."

Greg grinned, biting into his lip. He dropped his head. "Sorry. Was that obvious?"

Mycroft moved over to the fire beside him. As he reached Greg's side, his fingers brushed Greg's shoulder - the jolt of sensation was nearly enough to pull sparks from Greg's hands.

Unaware, Mycroft knelt beside him in the leaves, smoothed down his lap, and stretched out his fingers.

"Save your strength," he said. "Allow me. You've done quite enough for today."

Flames gasped from both his palms. They rolled with a soft roar across the bundle of twigs, igniting them in a flash. He held the stream for a few moments, fingers stirring as he coaxed the heat to settle, then cut the flow of fire with barely a breath.

His fingers curled, stretching after their efforts.

Mycroft hummed; he warmed his palms on their now crackling fire.

"Full-blooded Breton, huh?" Greg grinned. He couldn't help but be jealous. "That easy..."

"A productive use of my last energy for the day." Mycroft gave him a tired smile. "Wouldn't you say?"

 _Fuck me up... how are you even more beautiful when you're exhausted?_ It took Greg a second to scoop his heart back out of the leaves.

"Can you do more than that?" he asked, and Mycroft smiled.

"Ah... bright lights and popping noises, I'm afraid. Amusement for very young children, no more." Mycroft eyed him with interest. "Have you had magical training?"

"Gods, no. Fire's all I can manage, and not much. Light for a while. Sparks if I push it, but... I collapse straight after. Last resort."

"It's rather easy to expand your endurance," Mycroft remarked, his eyes bright in the glow of the fire. "With the right teacher."

"Yeah?" Greg smiled. "You'll have to show me how to do popping noises. Sounds useful."

Mycroft huffed. "It transpires not to work on wolves."

"Really?"

"Not as well as a sword, I imagine."

Greg winked. "I'll stick with the sword, then."

Mycroft flushed, looking rather pleased for a moment. "Have you always been an adventurer?" he asked. "I - imagine it's rather thrilling."

Greg couldn't bear to put out the little smile in those eyes. He couldn't bear to see it replaced by something not nearly as warm and admiring. _No, actually I'm an Imperial army deserter. And I wish it was just for being a coward._

"Sort of," he said, trying to keep the guilt off his face. "Mercenary work, mainly. Back in Cyrodiil. It's interesting. M'never bored, anyway."

"Why did you come to Skyrim?" Mycroft asked - and there was the question, the question that still skipped Greg's heart. _By the eight, I need to learn how to fucking lie._

"I've - got a friend in the capital, starting a business... wrote and asked me to join him. Sort of working my way there."

Mycroft smiled, interested. "Quite a change for you."

Greg held his nerve. Warmth was flowing from the fire now, lulling sleepily across his hands and face. "Yeah, you could say that. I - like change, though. It's been good so far."

Mycroft's eyes shone. "'Gods keep us guessing'?"

"Exactly. Nice to see some new places, anyway." Greg eased himself up from his knees. "I'm gonna try and set some traps out... see if I can snag us a rabbit before the morning. Plenty of them around. Are you okay to sit here, watch the fire?"

Mycroft looked up at him with distinct amusement. "Are you ordering me to rest?"

"Yep," said Greg. "But I'm doing it slyly, so you don't have to feel awkward."

"I see." Settling himself cross-legged on the ground, Mycroft gave Greg a smile and reached for the satchel he'd brought from the cart. "In that case, of course Gregori. I shall watch the fire. Thank you."

_'Gregori.'_

_Gods. Please._

"I won't be far," Greg said. "Yell, if you need me."

 

*

 

When Greg made his way through the trees some time later, having laid several traps around their camp, he could see Mycroft still sitting by their fire. He had Greg's cloak gathered around his shoulders again, and he was writing in a journal bound in deep red leather. The very tip of his tongue was just visible between his lips.

The sight was so affecting that Greg found himself almost reluctant to approach. He didn't want to disturb that look of gentle focus and peace.

"Only me," he called, and Mycroft glanced up into the darkness. The bookseller smiled, ended his sentence and blew across the ink to dry it, closing the journal as Greg reached the edge of their camp. "Sorry... am I back too soon? You can keep writing. I don't mind."

"I might do so, in a while..." Mycroft put the journal away into his bag, fastening it carefully. "In the meantime, I - thought I should have food ready for you. It's not much, I'm afraid."

On two wooden plates by the fire, he'd laid out a small meal for each of them - grilled leeks, cheese and bread, a little dried beef. There was a bottle of Honningbrew Mead sitting ready, and the look in his eyes was of quiet hope.

Feeling his heart thud against the front of his chest, Greg came over and settled at his side.

"You're kind to do this," he said. Mycroft lowered his eyes, pleased.

"Hardly," he said.

"I mean it, Mycroft. Thanks."

The bookseller seemed to flush a little, moved by something. "I'm still very much in your debt, I assure you."

"You serious?" said Greg. "Saved me riding, bored and alone all day...? Nice cosy trip in a cart, good company. I'm the winner here." He reached for the mead, finding the cork ready loosened. "Here," he said. "You take first drink."

"I insist the honour is yours."

"Me? Honour? Never heard of it. You first."

"Given that you are armed," Mycroft said, his eyes glittering, "and I am not, I shall acquiesce... but I will drink it in _your_ honour."

He did so - toasting Greg dutifully with the bottle, then taking a graceful sip.

Greg had never seen anyone sip mead.

He almost died on the spot, too affected even to keep hold of his face.

"To your good health," Mycroft said, pleased by his grin, and handed the bottle over. "And to your kindness, Gregori. May I find some way to repay it."

_Gods help me._

Greg took the bottle, swirling it.

"Here's to not being the sort of arsehole who'd leave someone bleeding on the roadside." He took a drink, wiped the rim, and gave it back. "May there be more of us around in this world."

 

*

 

They ate and talked by the fire until the very last of the sun's warmth had left the air, and the forest had fallen still and silent all around them. An owl was calling, somewhere off to the north; its mate responded fondly from the south.

"Hey," Greg said at last, shuffling over to the cart. "Give me a hand. I figure we can spread our bed rolls underneath here, keep us dry... have you got any valuables you want to keep safe with us?"

"Oh, I - m-most of my things are - "

"Don't worry, they'll be alright. Nobody's creeping off in the night with crates that heavy. Bring your bag underneath, maybe?" He reached out a hand, took the satchel Mycroft passed to him, and dipped himself beneath the cart. "Right. Can you hand me the bed rolls first? Let's see what room we can make under here..."

As he got both bed rolls laid out, it became apparent they'd be tucked fairly close all night.

_Suppose it'll keep him safe._

_Warmer, too._

"Can you pass my satchel?" he asked. "Then you can get underneath, if you like. Sorry it's snug."

"Quite alright," Mycroft said. He lowered himself gracefully to his hands and knees, then ducked beneath the cart, crawling his way in with care. "A very sensible idea."

"Spent too many nights in the rain lately. Is there a good tavern somewhere in Whiterun?"

"The Bannered Mare has an excellent reputation, I hear... their prices are very reasonable."

Greg wondered briefly why Mycroft had heard of their reputation, but not stayed there himself. _Money?_ Anyone who drove alone through the mountains just to sell a few books couldn't be all that rich.

"Bannered Mare," he said, with a smile. "Thanks." He knelt back on his haunches beside the cart, reaching for the clasps of his armour. He couldn't see much of Mycroft beneath - just a settling shape in the darkness, banded in the fire's glow by the spokes of the wheels. "I'm gonna shed some of my gear, is that alright? Might leave a bit more room for us both."

"Whatever makes you comfortable."

Greg stripped down to his tunic and breeches, piled his armour by the entrance to their den, and laid his sword within easy reach. His traps would give them early warning of anything getting close in the night, and the fire would keep wolves at bay - but there was no such thing as too careful. If he needed to defend them before dawn, he wanted his sword close at hand.

As he crawled beneath the cart, gingerly finding his way in, he felt his heel brush against something.

"Ah - sorry - "

"No - my fault entirely - am I taking up more than my share?"

"No, you're fine. Just me being clumsy." Greg found the head of his bed roll, pulled the leather pillow into place, and got himself settled. "There... are you okay like this?"

There was hardly any light now; his body blocked the fire's glow from reaching Mycroft. In this moment, his new friend was probably the safest person in all of Skyrim - hidden beneath a cart, tucked safe against a rock wall, with Greg's body between him and the rest of the world. Anything that wanted Mycroft would have to make its way through Greg first.

He could feel Mycroft there in the dark, close - close enough that they could put their arms around each other without reaching - close enough that Mycroft's voice, when it came, was murmured from only inches away.

"Perfectly comfortable, thank you." There came a tentative pause. "Sincerely, I - can't put into words what you've done for me today. You've been quite the miracle, Gregori." A little humour curled Mycroft's voice. "'Mara's mercy' indeed."

Greg felt his heart glow beneath his tunic. He wished he could see Mycroft's face - just one more glimpse of those eyes, bright and blue-grey and beautiful. He hadn't even known they existed this morning. Now they were the last thing he wanted to see before he slept.

"I've had plenty of her mercy," he said, keenly aware of his voice in the smallness of the space. He kept it soft and low, his tones gentle. "Far more than my share. About time I passed some on."

"You do her credit. Truly."

Greg's heart gripped. "Always try to," he murmured. "Only thing we can ever really do. Try."

He hesitated. It felt strange to end this day. _Day I met you._ It felt strange to say goodnight, not to speak again until the morning. He didn't quite know how to do it.

"If you need anything during the night..." he said, and immediately hated himself for it. _Like what? A mug of milk?_ "I'm - just here. Give me a kick."

"I will." Mycroft's voice sounded odd for a moment, almost timid. "I hope you sleep well."

 _Gods almighty._ "Y-Yeah. Me, too. You. Sleep well."

He felt Mycroft inhale.

"Goodnight, Gregori," he said, and stirred beside Greg in the darkness. _Adjusting his pillow. Settling._

"G'night," Greg replied, his voice faint. He didn't dare say anything else; none of the words in the world seemed right.

Instead he closed his eyes, rested his head, and found a few moments in this day for a prayer.

_Lady Mara, I lay myself in your hands. In your mercy may I trust. In your perfect love and peace I place my fears._

_Mara, keep me safe._

_Mara, keep me warm._

_Mara, bring me home._

 

*

 

_22nd of Last Seed._

_Where to begin?_

_His name is Gregori, and he is from Cyrodiil._

_And he believes I am a bookseller from Markarth._

 

 


	7. Company

Greg woke the next morning on his back, with the feeling that he'd slept well. His dreams had left his soul at peace. He felt warm and heavy, safe in these first few moments of the day. As he inhaled his first deep breath he stretched - and discovered an arm lying across his chest. There was a head nestled at his shoulder.

Realising, his stomach tightened. 

He'd shared a tent plenty of times in the Legion. It wasn't uncommon to wake up and find your body had gone looking for extra warmth in the night. The amount of accidental snuggling that took place in the ranks of the Imperial Army was off the scales - it would probably dent their image, if people knew.

_ But you're not a soldier, darlin', are you? _

_ You don't know it's alright. _

He didn't want Mycroft to be embarrassed. That was the last thing he wanted in this world. 

He shifted quietly, hoping to dislodge the bookseller with the gentle movement.

Mycroft stirred, mumbling - and on his in-breath, cuddled closer.

As he nuzzled into Greg's neck, Greg shut his eyes tight.

_ He doesn't know.  _

_ Doesn't know it's you.  _

_ There'll be a wife in Markarth - thinks you're her - misses her - he doesn't know -  _

Mycroft gave a soft hum in his sleep, oblivious. He brushed his nose against Greg's stubble.

Greg didn't move. He stayed absolutely silent and still, barely breathing until he could be certain that Mycroft had settled once more. 

He then reached gingerly for the arm lying across his chest, and took hold of Mycroft's wrist.

As his arm was lifted the bookseller stirred, murmuring at whatever development this caused in his dreams. Greg paused a moment to let him sink into sleep again, his heart beating quick and hard.  _ Here goes nothing.  _ Slowly he tipped Mycroft back onto his own bed roll, one easy and cautious movement. 

Mycroft made a soft noise of protest as he rolled. He stirred, closed a hand in the front of Greg's tunic and pulled him to come too, searching instinctively for his warmth.

Greg's soul writhed. 

He resisted the pull, gazing down at Mycroft with his heart on the point of rupture.  _ Gods help me. _

How easy it would be. 

How easy, just to lean over him like this - soft and sleepy, craving Greg's warmth - press his lips to that pretty mouth, feel Mycroft stir with enjoyment. That short auburn beard and his own grey stubble, stroking together. How long since he'd kissed someone? - felt their arms wrap around him - a lover's mouth, gentle, warm, _male,_ wanting him, kissing him back...

Inhaling, Greg loosened the sleeping fingers from his tunic. He tried not to notice his own fingers shaking.  He lowered Mycroft's hand gently to the edge of Mycroft's bed roll, and placed it there, and took a moment to ensure he was asleep.

Mycroft didn't stir.

Heart pounding, Greg got out from under the cart. 

The forest was calm and cool, just starting to lighten. The chill in the morning air dimpled Greg's skin beneath his tunic as he emerged. It was everything he needed right now. He brushed himself down and shivered, trying to drag his thoughts away from where they wanted to be, and onto practicalities instead.  _ You know it happens. You know it happens all the time. Stop reading into it.  _

_ Forget about it. _

The fire had lasted well enough throughout the night. If they were lucky, his traps would have caught something to put over it. He stirred the ashes with a stick, added a couple more branches to feed it, then took himself off to make use of a tree. 

By the time he returned to the camp, holding two fresh rabbits in his hand, his thoughts had cooled enough for him to feel normal again.

The sight of Mycroft, wrapped up in Greg's cloak by the fire, kicked his pulse back up. 

"Good morning," Mycroft said when he was close enough, drawing the cloak around his shoulders. A quiet smile turned up the corners of his mouth. "I wondered where you were."

_ Gods almighty.  _

_ What I'd give. What I'd do.  _

_ Never have me, if you knew. _

"Checking the traps," Greg said, with a half-smile. He held up the rabbits. "One now, maybe? Keep one with us for later? I've not had a hot meal in days."

Mycroft visibly shivered. "I think that's an excellent idea."

"How'd you sleep?"

"Very well, thank you... much better than I have." Mycroft hesitated, watching him come closer. "Did you...?"

"Well enough. Looking forward to a bed in Whiterun, if I'm honest." Greg sat down by the fire, drawing a knife from his belt. "Hope I didn't kick you too much in the night."

The bookseller huffed, glancing down at his sleeves. 

"No," he assured Greg. "Not at all. You were entirely gentlemanly." He pulled a little at one of the tears in the fabric, brushing the fraying edge with his thumb. "Is it - strange?"

"Strange?"

"Having company." Mycroft watched him lay the rabbit flat on a rock to remove the fur. "I imagine you're rather used to being on your own."

Greg had spent most of his life in the Legion, longing for a few quiet minutes by himself. He'd then been on the run, longing for one glimpse of a friendly face - then been captured crossing the border, and immediately started wishing he was alone again.

Right now, the level of company was pretty perfect. 

He wasn't sure how to say that without scaring Mycroft away from him at speed. 

He smiled a little, concentrating on the rabbit instead.

"Don't mind company," he said, working cleanly and quietly with the knife. "For what it's worth, you're no trouble."

"I fear I haven't been very useful to you so far..."

"S'fine," Greg said. "Honestly." He couldn't keep the touch of mischief out of his voice. "If any more wolves come along, you can run 'em down. How's that?"

Mycroft flushed, his expression creasing. "You realise I wasn't aiming for the wolves, don't you?"

"S'why you missed," Greg told him, with a sideways smile. "Don't worry. You'll get them next time."

Reluctant humour curled Mycroft's mouth. 

"How're your wounds?" Greg asked him, and the bookseller eased back his torn sleeves. 

"Much better," he said, showing Greg his arms. The marks were paling already. "Thank you. I'm very fortunate you were there."

"Probably a good job I'd stopped earlier... otherwise I might've ridden right past you. Been long gone by the time you needed me." 

_ Just someone on the road with a horse and cart,  _ he thought.  _ Never would've seen your face. Spoken to you. _

_ Gods, I... can't think like this. I can't do this to myself. _

"Perish the thought," Mycroft said beside him.

"Mhm. Funny, how these things come together." Greg kept his focus on the rabbit; it was easier to forget Mycroft nuzzling into his neck when he couldn't see the man's eyes. "M'glad you're not badly hurt, anyway. Mind if we cover some miles today? I want to get us down out of the mountains."

"Not at all. I'd like that, too."

_ Plenty of time to chat on the road. _

_ Gods, stop it. Stop it. Stop it. _

_ You're -  _

_... married.  _

_ Were.  _

_ Were married. _

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Mycroft said, somewhere outside of Greg's thoughts.

Greg realised he meant with the rabbit. 

"You could give the fire a boost, if you wanted. Be a while before we need it, though..." Greg glanced at him, trying not to smile. At the touch of his eyes, Mycroft's mouth curved at once. "Write in your journal, if you like," Greg said.  _ "'The bold adventures of Mycroft and Gregori'." _

Amusement filled Mycroft's expression.  _ "'Day one,'"  _ he said.  _ "'I have crashed my cart and wolves killed my horse.'" _

_ "'A lunatic called Gregori has now kidnapped me from the road',"  _ Greg added, smirking.

_ "'Kindly kidnapped',"  _ Mycroft corrected.

"Mm.  _ 'Now demanding free book as ransom.'" _

"I've read worse beginnings."

"Yeah? Looking forward to seeing it on a bookstall some day. I'll be showing everyone. Bragging in every tavern I ever drink in." Realising he was grinning, Greg tried to ease it down to a smile.  _ Fuck, fuck.  _ "How long've you kept a journal?"

Mycroft smiled, a little embarrassed. "All my life now. A childhood habit, grown out of hand..."

"You've got shelves of them back home, have you?"

"Yes, I... I have." Mycroft shifted, looking down at his sleeves again. "Should possibly have thrown them out by now. Self-indulgent navel-gazing, really." 

Greg felt his heart tighten. 

"What? Don't do that. It's amazing you've got those." He frowned at Mycroft, unsettled by the quiet expression. "All your thoughts, safe forever? My life's vanished in a flash... you've still got yours, written down." 

He nudged Mycroft on the arm.

"Don't throw them out," he said. "Go write some more. Memories matter. They're all we've got in the end."

Mycroft huffed; he gave Greg a gentle glance. 

"You are far too profound for a mercenary," he remarked.

"I save it up," Greg said. "For when I meet smart people I want to impress. Go get your book."

 

*

 

"Rain later, d'you think?"

Mycroft peered up at the sky, his eyes narrowing. "Possibly," he said. "Then, Falkreath's natural state is rain..."

Greg reached out a hand to help him up into the cart. 

"Suppose we'll get to Whiterun just as fast whether we're wet or dry," he said, as Mycroft settled beside him in the seat. "Comfy? D'you want my cloak?"

"Oh, I - no, you should - "

"If you're cold, Mycroft, have it. I'm in hide armour. You need it more."

"If you're certain..." As Mycroft tentatively reached into the cart, retrieving Greg's cloak from across his crates of books, he said, "It's a beautiful cloak. Where did you get it, may I ask?"

"Falkreath," Greg said, with a smile. "Jarl's steward gave me it for the road... gods alone know how much it would've cost."

"The - jarl's steward?"

"Mm. Did a job for her. I'm not in with the elites or anything - don't think that."

Mycroft wrapped himself up in the cloak, quiet for a few moments. 

As they set off, wheels rumbling once more along the road, he asked,

"How long ago were you in Falkreath?"

"Only a few days," said Greg. "Sort of passed through... didn't see much of the place. Then again, there didn't seem much to see."

Mycroft snorted. "Yes, that's true enough..."

"Have you been?"

"Ahh. Once or twice." Mycroft gave him a faint smile. "Very little demand for books there."

"Ha. I can imagine. When did you last go?"

"Oh, some years ago now."

"Yeah? Don't bother going again. They've just got a new jarl... replaced his uncle. Political shifting with the Empire, from what I heard."

"Oh?"

"Mm." Greg rewrapped the reins around his hands, unsettled by the memory of Siddgeir looking him up and down. "Bit of an arrogant shit, to be honest. Slimy little prick."

"You - met the jarl?"

"Briefly." Greg felt the corner of his mouth pull. "First jarl I've ever met. Not left me in a rush to meet another one, to be honest."

"What took you to meet him?" Mycroft asked - adding, quietly, "I've never met a... they live in a different world to us, from what I see."

"Just work," Greg said. "They'll speak to the common folk when they want something doing. What's the jarl of Markarth like?"

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know," Mycroft said. He gathered the fur of Greg's cloak beneath his chin. "Jarls rarely want much from people like me."

"You made a smart choice," Greg told him. Hearing the fondness in his own voice, he took a moment to try and suppress it - to speak normally to the poor bastard. "Best to stay out of the interests of powerful people. Never ends well."

"I think you might be right there," Mycroft said.

They rolled on in comfortable quiet down the road.

 

*

 

After little more than an hour, a distinct downwards slope began. 

"The descent out of the mountains is fairly steep," Mycroft warned. "It means we'll reach the plains very shortly, though."

"That's a relief. By nightfall, maybe?"

"By the afternoon, I imagine."

"Really? That soon? S'good news." Greg could always get out and guide the horse, if they needed. It would take some weight out of the cart at least. "How about we push on until the plains? Take a quick rest when we're out of the mountains?"

"Yes, that seems sensible. Would you like me to take the reins for a while?"

"You sure?"

"Yes, of course." Mycroft reached out. As Greg handed him the reins, their hands briefly touched to pass them. It was hard to ignore the jolt of his heart. "Would you - like your cloak back?"

"No, no," said Greg. "You keep it. M'warm enough."

 

*

 

"So... were your family booksellers, too?"

"Oh - yes." Mycroft glanced at him, shy. "My father."

"Family business, right?"

"Yes. Yes, I took over after he... I've always rather liked books, though. Quite happy to follow in his footsteps."

There came a quiet pause.

"Were your - parents also mercenaries?"

_ Ha.  _ "Gods, no. Dad was a merchant. Sailed out of Anvil. He had my mum imported specially from High Rock... she came over on a ship full of red wine and spices. Surprised she wasn't listed under 'Other Goods'. My grandmother came with her, too. Help raise the children."

"You - said your mother was from Wayrest?"

"Yeah." Greg's heart twisted a little. "Heard it's beautiful there." _  She was, too. _

Mycroft hesitated. 

"It is beautiful," he said. He watched Greg for a moment, holding something back. "Did you have many siblings?"

"Ah, no. Just me. Three half-brothers from Dad's first marriage. Grown-up by the time I came along."

"I see."

"What's it like?" Greg asked. "High Rock." His grandmother had called it 'the old country'; she'd talked about rolling hills and castles and manor houses, lavender growing wild in the fields, great festivals held in the streets.

"You haven't been?" Mycroft said.

Greg felt his stomach tug. "Is that pathetic?"

"No, not at all." Mycroft gave him a small smile. "If you were born in Cyrodiil, there's no reason you should have gone. High Rock is very pleasant. It has a great deal of culture and history... it - feels rather peaceful, compared to recent days of Skyrim."

"When did you...?"

"I was a young man when I left."

"With your family, or...?"

"Ah - no. Alone."

"Oh - sorry - was that when you lost - ?"

"It - wasn't long after my father's passing. I'd made the decision to leave before then, though." Mycroft looked down at his sleeves, pulling at his cuff. "My mother remains in Daggerfall. She stayed there with my brother."

Greg smiled. "Younger brother?"

"Mm. Sherlock."

"And you moved the business over to Markarth?"

"Ah - yes." Mycroft gave him an almost apologetic glance. "My life has been rather quiet, I'm afraid. I imagine your stories are far more interesting than mine."

_ You wouldn't even believe me.  _ "Not sure about 'interesting'..."

Mycroft laughed. It was the single most arresting sound Greg had ever heard; his hands tightened around the reins in response.

"A lifetime adventuring?" the bookseller said. "And you're not sure about 'interesting'? I'm afraid I have to accuse you of false modesty, Gregori."

_ Or being a bloody liar.  _ "Well... okay, maybe there's been  _ some  _ interesting bits." He gave Mycroft a tentative look, biting his lip. "Have you - got a family of your own back in Markarth? Kids?"

"Ah... no, not as such." Mycroft lowered his gaze. A little colour rose in his face - but he was smiling. "I'm afraid Mara and I have yet to make each other's acquaintance. Married to my work."

Greg's mouth curved. "Safest thing to be married to."

"Indeed?" Mycroft's eyes glittered at him, amused. "Are there  _ dangerous  _ things to be married to?"

_ Gods help me.  _

Greg looked him in the eye. 

"Frost trolls," he said - and watched Mycroft's face crease. "Don't marry a frost troll.  _ Really  _ doesn't work out. Remember that, won't you? When you're long gone over the horizon, and someone tells you to marry a frost troll... just think of me.  _ Bad  _ idea."

"I shall do so," Mycroft said, his eyes still dancing. "Thank you for the wisdom, Gregori. I shall carry it always."

"Good. You're welcome." Greg turned his eyes back to the road, trying not to smile. "To be honest, marrying any kind of troll is probably a blunder. Just steer clear, alright?"

"There speaks the voice of experience?" Mycroft chuckled, burrowing into his cloak. 

_ I wish.  _ "Get me very drunk in Whiterun," Greg said, keeping his eyes on the road, "and maybe I'll tell you a story."

"Goodness. 'Interesting' indeed."

"S'one word for it." Greg glanced up at the sun. "Not much further 'til the plains, d'you think?"

"No, not much further."

"Then a rest?"

"Mm. Then a rest."

 

*

 

With the horse tethered, and the cart secure, Greg unbuckled his satchel and fished around inside for what he needed. Brandy bottle in hand, he strode off the road into the knee-high scrub of ochre-coloured ferns. They stretched as far as the eye could see, to the distant mountains all the way across the plains. It would take days of travel for someone to reach them; they must be huge.

Greg swigged from the bottle, slumped himself down into the ferns, and laid back to gaze up at the wide open sky.

The clouds gazed back at him as they drifted overhead.

After a few moments, an amused Breton bookseller stepped into his field of view. Mycroft smiled, and wordlessly held out an apple.

Grinning, shielding his eyes from the sun, Greg took it. He offered up the bottle in exchange.

As Mycroft drank, Greg watched him survey the plains. He understood entirely the look on Mycroft's face - the distance of it all, the space - there was something vast and expansive about the sight that got into the soul. 

"Glad to be out of the mountains?" Greg asked him.

Mycroft huffed, wiping the bottleneck. "You can't imagine."

"How much further is it from here to Whiterun?"

"Two days, perhaps?" Mycroft watched him take a bite from the apple, chewing. "If we make good progress. We'll be following the foot of the hills for a while, then heading north-east." 

Greg swallowed his mouthful of apple. "Still a way to go, then."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Two days I wouldn't have lived to see, without your help."

_ Two days I shouldn't have lived to see, either.  _ "Sit down," Greg said, with a smile. He patted the ground next to him. "S'dry. Ferns are soft. Closest thing you'll get to a bed for two more days."

Amused, Mycroft settled down beside him on the ground. He let Greg eat for a while, watching the horizon and occasionally taking a drink from the bottle, his face curiously peaceful.

"You look like you've had a weight taken off," Greg remarked, and Mycroft gave him a smile.

"I find myself glad to be alive."

"Good reason to smile."

"It is." Mycroft offered him the bottle. Greg took it, sitting up on one elbow to drink. "I - suppose part of me didn't expect to see this sight..."

Greg felt his heart stir with sympathy. He watched Mycroft a moment, quiet. "You really thought you were screwed, didn't you?"

Mycroft glanced down, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. "I rather did."

"Looked like a broken man when I found you," Greg said. "Like you'd just given up. Like you were just going to sit there until something got you."

"A distressing feeling." Mycroft rested his chin upon his knees, watching Greg. "To conclude that your best efforts have come to nothing, and there is no recourse left to you."

"Yeah?" Greg's heart thumped, trying not to gaze into his eyes. "I know that one."

"Mm?" 

"Yeah. I mean... we've all been there. 'The end'."

Mycroft smiled slowly, his eyes bright. "Another of these interesting stories you don't have," he noted.

_ Fuck, I want to kiss you. I want you in my arms. Want to lie in the ferns with you, hold you, just - alone - you and me -  _

_ Why're you looking at me like that?  _

"Can I tell you something?" Greg said. He wasn't even sure which of the somethings he wanted to tell.

"Of course," Mycroft said, quietly. "Go ahead."

Greg's heart tightened a little. 

"I was at Helgen," he said. "There was - ... I don't really know how to say it."

Mycroft's forehead contracted. "Helgen?"

Greg bit the corner of his mouth. "When it was attacked."

He watched Mycroft hesitate, the smile fading quickly from his face. _"Attacked?"_

"Yikes. I guess word hadn't reached Markarth by the time you left. It - got destroyed. All of it. The whole town."

Mycroft's mouth opened.  _"When?"_ he demanded.

"A week ago."

"But - who in Oblivion attacked - "

"Y-You won't believe me. I've not told anyone. M'still not sure it really happened."

"Tell me," Mycroft said, pale. "Please."

Greg's throat gripped. "There was - a dragon."

"A..." Mycroft didn't believe it. He searched Greg's face, and Greg could see him trying to figure out the source of the error - whether Greg was mad, misinformed or making things up. "What - do you mean, a... dragon?"

"Big, black - lizard - wings. Breathing fire. Picking people up and dropping them."

"Gregori - "

"It was huge. Bigger than anything I've ever seen."

"This - this sounds - "

"Told you you wouldn't believe me." Greg hesitated, feeling his heart sink in his chest. "I've got burns on my shoulder. When I'm out of my armour, I'll show you. It tore the place apart - buildings, people - burning everything - I managed to get out through a tunnel under the keep. I shouldn't be alive right now."

Mycroft stared at him, paler than ever. "Dragons are a legend," he said.

"Yeah, I... I heard that too."

"Did you tell Siddgeir?" Mycroft asked, and something strange skittered across the back of Greg's mind, something there wasn't time to isolate now. He answered with his eyes low.

"No, I... I didn't think he'd believe me either. Even when his guards were there, telling him Helgen was in ruins and they were closing the road, I didn't dare say a thing."

"They - " Mycroft faltered. "Closing the road?"

"Mm. In case it comes back, I guess. Not that there's much left in Helgen for it to come back for..." Greg breathed in, feeling cold creep across the back of his neck. "I - should've told them in Falkreath, shouldn't I? Warned them."

"Did anyone else see this dragon?"

"A lot of people who died," Greg said. "One other who made it, that I knew about... don't know where he is now. I hope he passed the message on."

Mycroft swallowed. "This is - i-irregular."

"I know." Greg watched Mycroft for a moment of silence, and realised he was still holding the brandy bottle. He took a numb drink. "I... kinda wish I hadn't seen it. I still don't know what to think. I guess they're not a legend after all."

"You must tell the jarl in Whiterun," Mycroft said. He held Greg's gaze, concerned. "If what you say is true, any settlement could now be in danger."

_ Suppose I'm going to see him anyway.  _ "Yeah... yeah, I'll... tell him. If nobody's reached Whiterun through Helgen for a week, they'll be wondering anyway..."

"That - road is closed entirely, then?"

"Looks like it," Greg said. He held out the bottle. "S'why I had to come this way round."

Mycroft looked at the bottle for a moment, hesitating. 

He then took it, drank for some time without a breath, and gave it back with a shiver.

"Perhaps we should press on," he said. "Keep an eye out for shelter for the night."

"You sure?" said Greg. "We can rest here for a bit, if you want. No hurry."

"No, I - I think I'd rather push ahead."

"Fair enough." Greg tried a cautious smile. "Everything okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine... we just - have additional reason to travel quickly, that's all."

 

*

 

As Greg helped him back up into the cart, Mycroft said,

"Helgen is very quiet for a mercenary. What took you there?"

_ I was getting executed as a Stormcloak. Despite not bloody being one.  _

"Are you bored with the answer 'work'?" Greg asked, swinging up into the cart. 

"What manner of work?"

"Escorting a merchant." Greg reached for the reins. "S'becoming my speciality," he said, then blinked as his hands were batted aside. "Oi."

"You deserve to rest," Mycroft said, taking the reins. He wrapped them around his forearms. "Please do so. There is food in my pack if you want it."

"I'm fine, Markarth. I can drive. Besides, it's my horse."

"And it is attached to my cart," Mycroft said, neatly. "Rest, please. Do not call me Markarth."

Greg couldn't fight a smile. Obediently he sat back in the seat, reached for the leather pouch at his belt, and retrieved the small wooden bear he'd been whittling. It still looked like a potato for now.  _Plenty to keep me occupied,_ he thought.

Perhaps it was his imagination, or perhaps the flatter road now ahead - but Mycroft seemed to be pushing the horse a little faster than before.

 


	8. Warmth

_24th of Last Seed. Evening._

_We reached the plains early this afternoon, and have put some miles behind us since. In truth I'd be happier to continue into the night, but I don't want to seem suspicious in my anxiety._

_The road east out of Falkreath transpires to be closed. It seems Helgen has been attacked. The circumstances surrounding this incident are unclear, but it means that if Siddgeir has set hunters on my tail to retrieve me, they will be following the road that Gregori and I are on._

_Perhaps we were overtaken in the night._

_Or perhaps they are catching up to us._

_There's no way of knowing. I'm keenly aware that if I can avoid Siddgeir's reach for another two days, we should reach Whiterun. It then becomes much harder for him to pursue me._

_I'm very fortunate to have Gregori with me. More fortunate with every passing hour. Saving my life was only the first of his kindnesses towards me. Part of me wonders whether, if I told him, he would understand... whether he might even protect me from Siddgeir._

_But if he left me by the roadside in disgust, it would be all that I deserve._

_I hate that I've deceived him already. What choice was there? None. And now I have no choice but to carry on the deception. He is a good and honourable man. And I am a thief, no matter how justified it might have seemed in my distress._

_I'm exploiting him. His kindness. I write this sitting by the fire he built, wrapped in his cloak, while the rabbit he caught roasts for our supper._

_The way he looks at me sometimes, I... almost wonder._

_But in my heart I know he's this kind to everyone. He is simply a good man. There aren't enough of them in this world, and for good reason: men like me exploit them, make them tired and cold._

_Perhaps in Whiterun, when I'm safe, perhaps then I can tell him. I can tell him who I am, and what Siddgeir is, and why I did what I did._

_And I can only hope he understands._

 

Pausing in his work, Mycroft lifted his eyes to the light of the fire.

Gregori sat across from him. He was working too, holding the same small carving in his hand that he'd laboured over quietly all afternoon. There was a look of gentle peace upon his features. The firelight showed him for his age, settling a shadow into every line, darkening his stubble, gilding the silver in his hair with a jewel-bright blood red - and it was wonderful.

Watching him, Mycroft's heart tightened to half its size.

_Dibella's breath._

_Your face. Your hands._

Some things couldn't be committed to a journal. Some impressions weren't fit for paper and ink. The truth was the man was divinely created, and the expression of quiet focus was enough to take the breath from Mycroft's lungs. Whenever he spoke, for a moment Mycroft couldn't function. The gentle weight of Greg's eyes made him feel half his age. He was certain it wasn't ordinary to feel so intensely fond of a man he'd met all of a day ago - but he'd never wanted to need someone quite so badly in his life.

The care he put into a simple woodcarving... the comfort it seemed to bring him...

Suddenly Mycroft wished he was a woodcarving. He wanted to be cupped safe in those large and careful hands, letting them shape him into what he was meant to be - finding his form beneath that fond and patient gaze. The quiet sound of the blade across the wood was impossibly soothing.

Mycroft watched for some time, lost - then heard his own voice speak, unaware he'd given it permission.

"What are you making?"

The corner of Greg's mouth lifted. Without looking up, he murmured, "A bear."

"For Mara?"

"Mm..." Greg brushed a few curls of wood from the carving. They fluttered down to join the scatterings around his boots. "Heard there's a temple to her, halfway across the world somewhere."

Mycroft smiled a little. "Her temple in Skyrim is in Riften, I believe."

"Mhn." Greg shifted his weight, sighing. "I'll have made her a lifesize one by then," he muttered, working the blade carefully into the wood. "Fit wheels to the thing and ride in on it..."

"Would her shrine not do?"

Greg glanced at him, a slow flicker of those dark and decadent eyes. "Shrine?" he said. "Which of the moons is that on?"

Mycroft smiled, watching him continue to carve. "Just on the border of the Pale, if I remember rightly."

"'The Pale'?"

"The hold that lies north of Whiterun."

Greg stopped carving. He looked up with a lifted eyebrow.

"How far north of Whiterun?" he said.

Mycroft's mouth pulled. "A day or two to travel?" he said, closing his journal. He pulled the ties across it carefully. "Certainly not as far as Riften."

Greg's other eyebrow hitched to join the first.

"She's got a shrine _a day north of Whiterun?"_ he said, and Mycroft felt his heart squirm with immediate pleasure to be the one to impart this news.

"I'll show you on your map, if you like. It's up in the mountains - close to an old Nordic tomb."

"Stendarr's arsehole. Why did nobody tell me this?"

"It's not a large shrine," Mycroft said, "nor particularly well-known. I've never seen it myself."

"But - you know where it is, right?"

"I do," Mycroft said, as he returned his journal to his satchel. He buckled it shut, glancing up.

The look of tentative hope was almost too much to bear. Those eyes were hard enough to resist in their ordinary state, let alone slightly rounded and soft.

His heart tugged in his chest.

"When we reach Whiterun," he said, "if you... have a spare few days..."

_Gods, I shouldn't be doing this. I should let him go. He will be in danger in my company._ _I can't risk his safety just to - to spend a little longer -_

" - I... could escort you there, if you wished."

"Really?" Greg searched his face. "How long are you going to be in Whiterun?"

 _Ah._ "I shan't be there for _too_ long."

"Right - so - you'll be heading back to Markarth quite soon?"

"No, I was... planning to head on from Whiterun. I hadn't quite decided where yet." Mycroft hesitated, drawing Greg's cloak with care around his shoulders. "My plans are rather open-ended. I'm sure I could find some time, though. To say thank you."

Greg had forgotten his carving. "Honestly? Won't you - want to get on with selling your books?"

 _Gods._ "Not a particularly hectic trade." Realising, Mycroft felt his stomach harden. He glanced down at his satchel and quietly adjusted the clasp. "You'll wish to start looking for work, though... forgive me. I'm - "

_Not accustomed to earning a living._

_And rather desperate to stay near you._

" - well, the... offer stands," he finished lamely. "Think about it, perhaps. I can always just mark it on your map, if you'd rather - "

Greg's voice came from across the fire. "Mycroft..."

Mycroft's heart thumped; he looked up.

Greg's eyes glittered as they held his gaze.

"That's kind of you," he said. "I'd - really like that. Thanks."

 _Gods on high._ "Y-You're quite welcome."

Greg smiled, and Mycroft felt his pulse quicken as if on command.

"Give me a day or two to drop something off," Greg said. "Maybe have a bath and sleep in an actual bed for once, then I'll be good to go."

Mycroft's heart filled. "Of course."

"Sure you don't mind? Don't let me cut into your plans."

 _'Plans',_ Mycroft thought. _Panicked instincts at best._

"Open-ended," he said again. "I'd be very pleased to show you..." He watched Greg's eyes shine in the light of the fire. "You might have to hurry with your bear," he added, "if you're to finish it in time."

"So I will," Greg murmured. He held Mycroft's gaze, cosily; the small smile was exquisitely affecting. "Thank you, Mycroft."

_Dibella, don't do this to me._

"Rather the least I can do," Mycroft said. "After all you've done for me... truly, Greg, in the matter of who owes more to whom - "

A pale green flash suddenly caught the corner of Mycroft's eye. His eyes flickered towards it out of instinct.

Over the crest of a nearby rock pile came a bright little ball of light, glowing as it fluttered with fascination towards their fire.

Mycroft's heart nearly leapt from his chest.

He was up from the ground before he knew what he was doing, skidding after the moth. It led him in a darting circle twice around the fire, flashing and fluttering just ahead of him, then made its escape back over the rocks.

Mycroft scrabbled up them after it.

_Gods, these ill-fitting clothes - if I was in my robes -_

The moth twirled upwards, teasing him with its glittering trail. Mycroft leapt to grab it. It darted out of his reach, so close he felt its wings brush against his desperate fingers - then it was gone, flickering skyward and away towards the hills.

 _"Damn,"_ Mycroft gasped, watching it vanish across the plains. The bloody things were useful, and expensive to buy.

As he turned to climb down from the rock, he spotted the look of utter delight he was now being given from the fireside. Colour flared at once across his cheeks.

"Did the pretty butterfly get away from you?" Greg said, in sympathy.

Mycroft felt a small part of his soul die without a sound.

"It wasn't a butterfly," he said. "It - was a luna moth. They're prized in alchemy. The wings have an iridescence that lends itself well to... various restorative formulas..."

Greg grinned, biting into his lip.

"You're an alchemist, are you?" he asked, returning to his carving. "Never could get the hang of that."

Mycroft's cheeks darkened further. He didn't know if the firelight masked or worsened the effect, but from the look on Greg's face he suspected it was the latter of the two.

"Hardly an alchemist," he said. "I... dabble."

Greg smiled, shaking his head. "You're full of surprises, you know that? I'm starting to think both of us might be 'interesting'."

_The last thing in Tamriel I wish to be._

"Uncouth of me to deceive you," Mycroft said, as he rejoined Greg back by the fire. He sat down with care, readjusting the cloak around his shoulders. "I imagine our food will be done soon."

 

*

 

The cold came on quickly. Mycroft kept himself as close to the fire as he dared, watching the flames as Greg carved in peaceful quiet beside him. There was a dampness to the air that seemed to reach through wool and cloth, seeping beneath his very skin. He supposed that several days of poor food and worry were now taking their toll; sleeping within four walls was going to feel like an utter blessing.

In lieu of a roof, a cart would have to do for now.

"You tired?" Greg asked, not long after the shiver had reached Mycroft's bones.

"A little," Mycroft confessed. He glanced sideways at Greg, tentative. "We've - covered quite some distance today. My strength isn't what it was."

"Shall we call it a night? Think my eyes are getting fuzzy."

"Perhaps we should. I'd hate for you to spoil your carving."

Greg gave him a half-smile, then returned the knife to his belt and the carving to its small leather pouch. "Okay beneath the cart again?"

"Yes, that should be fine. I'll lay the bed rolls out."

"Before you do," said Greg, as Mycroft rose to his feet, "can I ask a weird favour?"

Mycroft's pulse skipped. "Go ahead."

Greg reached over one shoulder, tapping a wide leather strap on his armour. "Undo this for me, would you?" he said. "It'll save me twisting my arm out of its socket. There's - one on the other shoulder, too... f'you'd be so kind."

Mycroft couldn't hold back a smile. "Yes," he said. "Yes, of course."

He knelt down behind Greg, reached for the strap, and with some difficulty managed to work the stiff leather partway through the buckle.

"Don't hurt your fingers," Greg said, gently.

Mycroft inhaled. The urge to lean down and lay a fond kiss on the hinge of his jaw was overwhelming. _For Julianos's sake... he is not mine. We are not intimate. Why do all my instincts say that he is?_

"Almost there. Not accustomed to the removal of armour, I'm afraid..."

Greg flashed a grin over one shoulder at him. "S'alright," he said. "I appreciate it. Thank you."

Mycroft's stomach tightened.

"Not at all," he said, and tugged a little harder at the strap, working the leather through the fastening. "These - seem rather stiff - "

"Sorry. It's kinda new. Still wearing it in."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Few more weeks, and it should be softening."

The strap finally came loose. Greg visibly exhaled, stretching out his shoulder into its sudden freedom.

"Fuck, that's good..." he breathed.

Mycroft concentrated on the other strap, and not on the desperate stirrings of his imagination. "How do you cope carrying this much weight on a daily basis?"

"Would you believe you get used to it?" Greg asked. As he stretched, the muscles in his shoulder bulked. Mycroft tried not to gaze at them. "If the armour's fitted right, the weight gets distributed evenly... makes it easier to carry. S'only a problem if it's unbalanced."

When the other strap came free, Mycroft helped to lift the studded leather up over Greg's head. Greg groaned, shuddered, and dug his hands at once into the muscles at the side of his neck.

"Gods, that's better..." His eyes had closed; just watching him breathe was unbearable. "Thanks, Mycroft. Appreciate it."

Mycroft barely managed to get the words out.

"N-Not at all," he said. As Greg massaged his shoulders, head hanging low, Mycroft reached for their bundled bed rolls. "I'll - just - "

"D'you need a hand?"

"No, I - should be fine."

"Alright..." Greg bent low, attending to the buckles on his boots. "M'gonna get rid of these. Not going anywhere else before dawn... won't need them."

"Of course. Make yourself comfortable." Mycroft knelt down beside the cart, frowning at the darkness beneath. With a flick of his fingers, he sent a ball of light into the confined space. It flew until it found the back wheel and then stuck there, fluttering slightly, filling the space with clean white light.

With care, he arranged their bed rolls.

It made sense to lay them closer together. They covered more ground that way; nobody would end up pinned against the wheels.

"You okay?" Greg asked after a minute, as Mycroft retrieved the ball of light and vanished it with a wave.

"Yes - I think we might be ready under here."

"Right," said Greg, and Mycroft heard him get to his feet. "Everything's secure."

There came the soft schink of his sword leaving its sheath, ready to be laid nearby, then the jangle of a belt being unbuckled.

"Want to get comfy?" Greg said. "I won't be a minute."

Mycroft settled down on his bed roll, snapped open the fastening of Greg's cloak and pulled it from around his shoulders. He had it ready in his hands as Greg crawled into the confined space.

"Here," Mycroft said, tentatively, as he felt Greg lay down beside him. "We - should share the - "

"Oh - you sure?"

"It will make a serviceable blanket. And - there's enough for both of us to - "

"Sure. That'd be - yeah, good idea."

"Here, this is a corner - if you - "

"Thanks - "

Shifting, pulling the cloak carefully, they discovered it would cover them and the gap between them - just.

Mycroft hesitated, fearing to voice the obvious solution.

"Have you got any spare?" Greg asked.

"Ah - no, I - I'm rather short of - "

"Right." Greg audibly breathed in, and shuffled closer. "We're friends, yeah?"

Mycroft didn't dare laugh. He had a feeling it would come out rather high-pitched. "Are we about to become better friends?"

"Yep," said Greg. "That or frostbitten. How d'you tend to sleep? On your side?"

It felt somehow obscenely intimate that Gregori knew that. "Ah - yes - "

"Right. I lie on my back, so - " Greg pressed close to him, pulling the cloak tight. "Tuck in."

 _Oh, gods._ Mycroft settled as close as he could without actually cuddling Greg's arm. He suppressed the instinct to rest his cheek on Greg's shoulder. "Is this - am I - "

"You're fine," said Greg, sounding amused. "Have you got enough blanket now?"

"Y-Yes. Thank you."

"Promise?"

Mycroft felt his cheeks flare in the darkness. "P-Perhaps a - a little more would - "

"Lean on me," Greg said, and Mycroft could hear him smiling. "It's fine, Mycroft. Honestly."

"Is this a common occurrence when adventuring?" Mycroft mumbled, his heart pounding as he nestled into Greg's side.

"It is for people who survive the night," Greg said. "Any better?"

"Yes. Much better."

"Sure? So help me, I'll check."

A bubble of humour finally escaped Mycroft, muffled against Greg's shoulder. "I-I'm fine, Gregori. Thank you for your concern. An investigation shan't be needed."

"Good. If I steal the cloak in the night, kick me."

"I shan't do that."

"Well, write me a strongly-worded letter."

"You are a rogue," Mycroft said, and it was so hard not to laugh that he found himself trembling a little. "You're picking up a penchant for teasing me."

"You're fun to tease," Greg protested. Fondness softened his tones. "M'not getting too much, am I?"

Mycroft's heart squeezed. He wanted to lay a hand on the man's chest more than anything in the world - feel his heart beating, feel him breathe, feel the animal warmth of his skin through the thin linen tunic. He wondered if the small triangle of dark hair he'd glimpsed would thicken further down.

He'd not seen another person's bare body for many years now.

He'd rather consigned those days and those encounters to the past. Uneventful and disappointing as they'd often been, the memories were hardly worth holding onto. Intimacy struck him as romanticised awkwardness at best. He felt far closer to Nenya, with her gentle and sensible conversation, than he had to the young men at college whose beds he'd been persuaded into. He felt close to his books and to his own thoughts.

Not to bodies.

Not to skin.

But Gregori's voice was warm and soft; the muscles beneath his tunic were firm, and his hands were gentle.

He smelled of steel and fur.

"You alright?" Greg murmured in the darkness - and Mycroft recalled with a shiver he'd been asked a question.

"I - y-yes, I'm fine. And you're not too much. Not at all. I'm incredibly glad you're here... as ever."

Greg huffed.

"M'glad you're here, too," he said. Mycroft's heart twitched. "Long roads are always easier with someone else."

"Yes... yes, I'm learning that."

"G'night then, Mycroft..." Greg shifted in the darkness, inhaling. "Have good dreams."

"Good night, Gregori. I hope you have the same."

 


	9. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thanks for following along so far, everyone. <3 So pleased that you're enjoying this._

Arms - strong, securing, comfortable arms. 

Mycroft nestled closer, and felt them tighten tenderly around him. 

He rubbed his nose along the rasp of dark stubble he found, humming with pleasure; Gregori's chest expanded with a soundless sigh. Mycroft's tunic had rumpled up as he slept. He knew because he could feel Greg's fingers curled against his lower back, and the brush of human touch upon his bare skin was enough to make him shiver. Warmth cascaded in its wake down his spine. It was perfection, unparalleled; it took his breath.

As Greg began to stroke him, sleepy and slow, a feeling of utter safety lulled across Mycroft's senses. 

It was potent enough to soothe him back to sleep.

 

*

 

When he woke again, it was light - and Greg was not beneath the cloak.

_ A dream...?  _

Mycroft almost didn't dare to think. He dearly  _ hoped _ it had been a dream, and he hadn't genuinely cuddled so close to Greg in the night. If it had been real, it was mortifying. 

At the same time, the memory of gentle fingertips petting his bare back made his heart ache. 

"Gregori?" he tried.

Receiving no answer, Mycroft stirred onto his stomach. He rubbed blearily at his eyes, then squirmed his way out from beneath the cart.

The fire had extinguished itself in the night. On the plains, there had been few viable sources of wood with which to feed it. Greg's belt and sword were missing. As Mycroft looked around the camp, he realised he was searching in near panic for signs that he hadn't been abandoned. The horse was a reassuring sight, still tethered.

_ Surely he would not go. _

_ Has he been - hurt? Bandits?  _

There was no sign of a struggle; the crates in the back of the cart were untouched. Bandits would have cracked them open as a priority, then discovered themselves to be inordinately lucky thieves. When a jarl transported that amount of gold, he sent an entire complement of guards with it - Mycroft had taken it alone.

Whatever was responsible for Gregori's absence, it wasn't bandits.

Right on cue, from the back of Mycroft's mind arose a colder, sharper thought. 

_ Perhaps he awoke - found you tangled around him -  _

_ No, he - would have taken the horse. And he wouldn't - he wouldn't have - _

_ For heaven's sake, Gregori is fine. And I am a fretful old fool. _

Wrapping himself quietly in Greg's cloak, Mycroft sat down on a rock to wait.

The jangle of a belt and the easy tread of footsteps, ten minutes later, threw his pulse into the clouds. As he turned towards the sound, he stood up and pulled the cloak around his shoulders.

Gregori appeared, striding between the rocks with a broad grin on his face.

Mycroft felt his heart flip.

"Morning!" Greg called. His hair seemed to be wet, and there was a healthy flush across his cheeks. "Were you worrying about me?"

Realising he'd been caught rather red-handed, Mycroft lowered his embarrassed gaze. 

"I didn't hear you leave," he said, as Greg reached the burnt-out fire, dropping his sword and satchel beside it. "You've - bathed?"

"There's a stream," Greg said, pointing back between the rocks. "About a minute away. It's gorgeous. Really fresh."

Mycroft felt his heart tighten. His skin had been crawling to be cleaned for days. Everytime he touched his hair, he felt the grease gathering in it and wanted to wince.

"You should go," Greg said, reading his expression like an open book. He grinned and sat down. "I'll stay here with the stuff. You might need a mouthful of brandy when you're done - water's bloody cold."

Mycroft smiled a little, regarding him with uncertainty. "I'm not accustomed to public bathing," he said.

Greg laughed. 

"Public?" he said. "There's nobody around for miles, Mycroft. S'more private here than anywhere else on Nirn. Seriously, go wake yourself up - even just have a paddle. You'll feel better for it."

It had certainly done Gregori some good. Mycroft found himself squirming internally at the bright-eyed grin, the visible ease in the way Greg now held himself.

"Perhaps I'll take the chance to freshen myself," he said. "You - don't mind waiting with our things?"

"Not at all," Greg said, as he fished an apple out of his satchel. He took a bite, grimacing a little at the squish rather than crunch, and chewed without enjoyment. "We'll hit the road when you're done, how's that? It's an early start, but I suppose it'll get us to Whiterun sooner."

"That seems very sensible. Yes." Mycroft reached carefully for his satchel. "Just - over there?"

"Yep. Through the rocks and head towards the hills. You'll spot it." Greg smiled, his eyes bright. "Give your bite wounds a good wash, and I'll put some more healing ointment on them."

 

*

 

The stream was indeed secluded, hidden between two rock formations and glittering pleasantly to itself in the morning light. It wasn't a rushing torrent by any means, but it was clear and clean, and definitely deep enough to bathe in.

Timidly Mycroft tested the water with a hand. It was breathtakingly cold; it sent an immediate thrill up through his arm. 

The thought of Gregori here only minutes ago, naked to the sun and washing himself in the bracing water, sent a thrill of a rather different kind - through parts of Mycroft rather lower.

_ Gods, I am unbearable. _

_ At least it seems he didn't wake... I doubt he'd be smiling at me so freely if he had... _

Supposing with a shudder that the cold water would cool his heated thoughts, Mycroft placed his satchel cautiously atop a dry rock. With nervous fingers he undid the strings of his tunic. 

It felt impossibly strange to strip himself bare to the sky. Most of his body hadn't ever had the pleasure of the light of day. He'd been an anxious child, fond of his clothing and his furs, and thoroughly disinclined to join the other children playing naked in the river. That hadn't changed throughout his life. 

_ There is nobody here,  _ he soothed himself, folding his clothes quietly beside his satchel.  _ I will feel better, clean. I will feel calmer.  _ In Whiterun, he would arrange himself a proper bath with hot water and soap, and buy himself a new set of clothing. 

For now, the facilities of nature would have to do.

The water was shockingly sharp against his bare feet. Mycroft gasped even before it had reached his ankles, and had to force himself to continue into the stream. Climbing between the small rocks, shivering, he made his way towards a deeper pool he'd spotted in the centre, created by the natural shape of the rocks. It was almost perfectly formed to be a bathing tub. 

Sinking into it, panting, he felt ice ripple its way beneath his skin.

He swore to several gods, took a sharp breath in and dipped himself beneath the water, scrubbing his fingers into his hair.  _ Oh - by Oblivion, yes.  _ More than a mouthful of brandy would be required. The feeling of clean water against his skin was painful and perfect at once; he could feel the more tender areas of his body tightening, shrinking away from the cold. 

Surfacing with a gasp, Mycroft shook his hair out of his eyes. He took a moment just to breathe, hands clasped to his racing pulse at either side of his neck. 

_ Thank the gods he isn't here to see this. A fair sight I'm sure it makes. _

He opened his eyes, sighing.

It was then that the rock in front of Mycroft stood up, uncurled its claws, and lunged.

 

*

 

Greg heard the scream as clearly as if Mycroft were standing beside him. 

The carving dropped from his hands. He lurched to his feet and set off running before he could even think. As he charged through the bracken, heart pounding, he scrabbled for the sword at his side and by the grace of all eight gods he found it there. 

He drew it with the sharp strike of metal, staggering.

"Mycroft!"

He could hear the crack and rush of magic from the stream. The sound was unmistakable.  _ Oh, gods, please - no -  _

_ "Mycroft!" _

Greg raced around the rock formation, and finally caught sight of the scene. His heart leapt into his throat. There were blistering patches of frost everywhere, chunks of ice now cracking and floating away down the stream. Fallen over the rocks, struggling to get away from his attacker, was Mycroft. There was blood on his arms and feet.

Greg stormed into the water without a thought. 

The mudcrab didn't even see him coming. It was a big bastard - an old male, the size of a boulder. 

Greg brought his sword down on it in an instant, straight through the middle with a horrific cracking noise and a squish. Its high-pitched shrieks tailed off into a final fading whine. As it died, it released its grip on Mycroft's ankle. 

Greg kicked the thing aside with a grunt. 

The huge crab fell in pieces into the stream, flooding the water with its dark grey innards, and began to float away.

Throwing his sword to the bank, Greg reached down.

"Here," he gasped, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's bare body. Water rushed around them. "Here - I'm here - "

Mycroft's arms dragged around his neck.  _ "G-Gods - " _

"I'm here," Greg said again, lifting him from the freezing stream and into his arms. The pair of them were soaked. Mycroft's blood ran down his forearms and his ankles in diluted streams, weeping from deep red claw marks. 

Greg cradled him against his chest, panting with fading panic. 

"You're alright," he breathed. "You're okay, I've got you - "

Mycroft clung onto him, shaking. 

As they reached the bank, Mycroft scrabbled desperately for the cloak to cover himself. Distress wracked his features.

Greg's heart nearly ruptured.

"Here," he murmured, resting Mycroft on his feet, and wrapped the cloak around him. Mycroft shook and pulled it tighter, fiercely avoiding Greg's eyes, his expression pale with shock and pain. Glancing down, Greg spotted the mess the crab had made of his right ankle - deep gouges. "Mara's mercy... you can't walk on that..."

" - q-quite fine - " Mycroft managed, holding his weight off the foot. He was panting with pain. " - c-can't - a-apologise enough for - "

"Gods almighty, what've  _ you  _ got to apologise for? Okay, c'mere - you carry your things, and I'll carry you. We'll get you back to camp and I'll look at those wounds."

" - n-no - t-too far for you to - "

"No, it isn't. I can carry you fine. Get your arms around my neck," Greg said, and didn't wait for further protest, scooping Mycroft back into his hold. Mycroft clung on. "Vicious bastard got the jump on you, did he?"

" - w-weak - I - tried to drive it off with - " Mycroft's teeth were chattering with cold. " - t-too quick for me to - "

Greg realised with a thump of his heart. 

Mycroft had caused the frost. He'd caused the ice, trying to freeze the creature.

"S'fine," he murmured, as he gathered Mycroft close against his chest. He began to carry him with care back towards the camp. "This is my fault. Shouldn't've let you come down here on your own. Should've come with you."

" - Greg - y-your sword - "

"I'll come back for it," Greg said.  _ You're more important.  _ "It can wait there. Let's get you sorted first."

 

*

 

He rested Mycroft in the back of the cart to tend to him. 

His arms weren't so bad - the water had made the blood seem much worse. A few nasty nips, but the ointment would take care of them. It was nothing he hadn't already suffered from the wolves.

His ankle had taken more damage.

"Won't be able to walk on this for a few days," he said, lifting Mycroft's foot into his lap. Mycroft trembled without a word, still as pale as he'd been ten minutes ago. He watched wide-eyed as Greg filled his palms with the glossy liquid, then began to rub it into his ankle. "Keep it uncovered if you can, alright? You don't want to crowd it away in boots, or it'll fester."

Despair flooded Mycroft's features. "I - I c-can't afford to be - "

"Just a few days," Greg said. He kept his gaze serious, his voice gentle. "If there was a temple to Mara in Whiterun, they'd heal you. You'd be dancing around in minutes."

Mycroft shook, swallowing. "There is - t-to Kynareth - "

Greg supposed it would have to do. He worked another palmful of ointment into Mycroft's skin, spreading it with care across the wound. "Is there an alchemy supplies place?" he asked. "What makes a healing draught?"

"B-Blue mountain flowers - wheat - "

"We'll keep an eye out." Greg looked up into Mycroft's eyes, watching him gently. "Did it get you anywhere else?"

Mycroft flushed in desperation. "No."

"You're nearly as crap at lying as I am, you know that? Where is it?"

Fretfully Mycroft tightened the cloak. "O-On my side. It isn't deep."

"Will you at least let me see?"

Mycroft said nothing, holding his gaze in panic. Greg softened his expression, gazing back. 

"Seen plenty of men without their clothes, Mycroft. Let me look at your wound."

Mycroft blinked, startled. 

"In the army," Greg clarified - and as Mycroft's face tightened in confusion, he realised.  _ Shit. Shit.  _ "Uhh - "

"You - were in - ?"

"For a while."  _ Nearly all my damn life.  _ "It - didn't suit me. Left years ago. But I shared enough tents while I was in it. Now let me look at the wound, please?"

Mycroft searched his face, uncertain. 

"You're going to have to take the cloak off to get dressed," Greg reminded him, holding Mycroft's eyes very seriously. "We're friends. S'fine. Seen it all already."

Mycroft rolled his eyes in quiet distress, then inhaled, resignation flattening his mouth. He didn't move as Greg shuffled closer. As Greg reached for the cloak, Mycroft's eyes lowered and he shook.

Greg pulled the material away from him, gently. He forced himself to see the body beneath it the way he'd seen them in the army - inaccessible and out of reach, friends, brothers. He told himself that the emotion now flooding through him was compassion. He felt distress for the claw wound on Mycroft's hip, that was all - guilt for having caused it - nothing else. 

He filled his palm with healing oil, and applied it to Mycroft's skin. 

It didn't matter that he wasn't breathing. It didn't matter that Mycroft had taken a nervous hold of his arm, face turned against his shoulder, shaking with embarrassment at this situation.

"It's alright," he heard his own voice say. His heart was thumping with distress. "You'd do the same for me. Took my armour off for me last night. S'no different."

Mycroft shuddered, mute.

Greg closed his eyes; he rested his cheek against Mycroft's head.

"You need food," he said in a murmur, as he rubbed the oil into the skin. It was taking its time to soak in. "Brandy and rest. You can lie down in the cart today while I drive it."

"Th-thank you..."

"Shhh. It's alright. M'sorry this happened..."  _ Gods, I should've been there. I should've gone with you.  _ "Are you wishing you'd not left Markarth yet?"

Mycroft's fingers tightened on his arm. He pushed his face against Greg's shoulder, shaking in despair. 

"I-I will be very glad to see Whiterun," he whispered.

"Yeah. Yeah, me too... everything'll be alright then. Just need to get you inside the city walls, away from all the damn wildlife..."

As he applied another handful of oil to the wound, Mycroft lapsed into quiet.

At last, in a small voice, the question was asked.

"Did you - truly see a dragon?"

Greg's heart heaved. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I did."

Mycroft shook. "P-Perhaps it is you," he said. "Attracting all the creatures."

A tiny smile lifted the corner of Greg's mouth.

"Do I have to hand over my horse now?" he asked gently. "Take myself away, for your safety?"

"I'm n-not sure I would survive the night." Mycroft's throat tightened. "I - think it best you stay."

"Alright, then. I'll stay." Greg took his hand carefully away from the wound, and reached for Mycroft's tunic. "Be it on your own head, though... clearly I'm trouble."

Mycroft shuddered, taking the tunic from him. 

"You are the least troublesome man I have ever known," he said, and for the first time in minutes he dared to look at Greg - a flash of vulnerable grey-blue eyes. "Why are you helping me?" he asked. "Why are you - going out of your way to - "

Greg's heart pulled. For a moment, he thought of Hadvar - that hopeful invite to an inn. 

_ It's not like that.  _

_ This is different.  _

"Couldn't leave you," he said, watching Mycroft's grip tighten on the tunic. "Wouldn't've been right." He hesitated, feeling the realisation flood through his heart. "As time goes on, it'd be even less right. Couldn't ignore you screaming like that, could I?"

"Y-You could." Mycroft stared at him, pale. "With ease."

Greg pulled a face. "You've - met some twats, haven't you?" he said. "Full-bodied twats. Twats with bells on. Is it honestly that unthinkable? Someone being kind to you?"

As he watched the truth ache through Mycroft's eyes, and saw the blue-grey gaze drop with the weight of it, Greg's chest strained.

"Screw the people you know," he muttered. "You need new people."

Mycroft huffed. "Easy for a lone adventurer to say."

"You think I'm on my own because I knew decent people?" said Greg. "I'm telling you it's easy to look out for you."

"You h-hardly know me," Mycroft said, tightening his fingers in the tunic. His shoulders heaved. "You haven't the grounds to say that. You're too kind. It's - f-foul of me to exploit that."

"Holy hell, Mycroft. You're not  _ exploiting _ me. A couple of healing potions? No more of this," Greg decided, and reached for his satchel. "You need some food," he said, frowning. "You're shocked. You'll feel better with something in your stomach. Here - I'm leaving you with two apples while I go get my sword. I want to see at least one core when I get back, alright?"

Mycroft took the apple with reluctance. 

"Y-You shouldn't help me," he said. "I don't deserve - ... I won't be able to repay you."

"S'fine," said Greg, as he climbed down from the cart. His boots hit the ground with a thump. "M'not doing it for payment."

 


	10. Shelter

As the sun sank in the sky, it started to rain. 

"You okay?" Greg called over his shoulder. Heavy droplets hammered against the ground and rattled off his shoulder-plates. He'd had a feeling all afternoon that the clouds were going to break. They'd been hanging far too low. 

"Yes, I'm fine - "

"You sure? Can't really see any shelter near here."

"The Whiterun plains are aptly named," Mycroft said, his voice raised above the rain. "It seems the gods have decreed that we shall get wet."

"Ha. My tunic was just drying, too."

"Would you like the cloak?"

"Don't you dare," Greg said, glancing back with a smile. Mycroft gave him a look of quiet reproach from his nest between the crates, the hood pulled over his head. "I'm fine, Mycroft. It's only rain."

Mycroft's eyes glittered, but he did not argue.

As Greg returned his eyes to the road, there came a shifting sound and a quiet clink.

"Here." Mycroft passed the brandy bottle into the front, laying a hand on his shoulder. "I think you should finish this."

Greg grinned, taking the bottle. 

"For any reason?" he asked, as he uncorked it.

"Because you have driven us all day, and I am a wastrel. You should at least be warm for your pains."

Greg drank. As the rain drummed gently against his face, he let a thought wrap around him - a warm fire, somewhere indoors beneath a roof; a bowl of stew to share; a reindeer fur to bury himself beneath until the morning.

As he wiped his mouth, it occurred to Greg that he'd imagined the two of them there, sitting side-by-side on a bench. The image had come to him as easily as breathing, as if it were obvious they'd be together. For all he knew, Mycroft had a friend he'd be staying with, or he'd be in another inn.

_ Suppose I'm getting used to this. Me and you, on the road. _

_ Wonder if you need an assistant for your bookshop. _

"Tell me if you spot anywhere to shelter," he said, as he handed back the bottle. He caught Mycroft's snort over the sound of the downpour.

"The nearest shelter on the Whiterun plains is Whiterun."

"Yep," Greg sighed, and rewrapped the reins around his arms. "Thought as much."

 

*

 

The rain came down without a pause for several hours. The night arrived early, shrouding the plains in a grey and heavy gloom. Greg was now wetter than he'd been in the stream this morning. Everything else in the cart was sodden as well, and the miserable wet clop of the horse's hooves was starting to depressing him. If it continued like this, setting up camp wasn't an option at all - the ground would be too wet to sleep on. 

It might be worth pushing onwards through the night.

As he turned his head over his shoulder to ask, he was surprised to hear Mycroft speak first.

"I think so," Mycroft said. "It's rather hard to make out, but - "

"What?"

"The structure." Mycroft shifted to the front of the cart, gazing out across the wild grass with a frown. "A house, perhaps? A hunter's shack?"

Greg squinted into the darkness. It took him a minute to see it through the rain. A small square shape stood against the sky, some distance from the road.

"Gods. Occupied, d'you think?"

"No sign of a fire... more likely abandoned."

"Right." Greg eased the horse to a stop. He handed Mycroft the reins, clambered down from the cart and unsheathed his sword. "I'll check it out," he said, glancing up into the back. He shielded his face from the rain with a hand. "You okay here for a minute?"

Mycroft nodded, looking down at him. "Yes, I'll be fine. Please be careful."

Greg's heart tugged. 

"I will," he promised, and filled his off-hand with light, releasing it into the air above him. The orb bobbed pleasantly over his head, undeterred by the rain. "Scream, if you..."

"Familiar with the routine by now," Mycroft said, and smiled.

Greg grinned. "S'working well for us," he said, turning away. "Don't go nowhere."

As he got closer to the structure, more and more of it emerged from the gloom. It looked like an old one-roomed farmhouse. It had fallen into disrepair some time ago, judging from the state of the walls. There were holes in the roof, and scrubby plants growing doggedly between the timbers - and as Greg eased his way beneath a fallen beam, he saw a few tiny shapes go hurrying for shelter under a protruding floorboard.

It was dry inside, though. There were no signs of footprints from either wild animals or people, and nothing on the air except the rain. The sight of the empty fireplace stirred Greg's blood.

Turning round, spotting an old single bed pushed up against the wall, the deal was sealed.

On his way back towards the door, his foot found a loosened floorboard. It clunked down a few inches and Greg staggered, his pulse leaping. 

_ "Shit - " _

Safe in the doorway, he looked back at the floorboard - and began to wonder. Approaching carefully, he tested it again with his toe. As the board dipped, the same fascinating clunk sounded from beneath.

Kneeling with a frown, Greg dug his fingers into the gap. He grunted as he prized up the board, then laid down on the floor to peer beneath.

There was a storage chest concealed under the boards. Debris and dirt scattered its lid; nobody had opened the thing for years.

"Got any lockpicks?" Greg asked, as he reached the cart and took hold of the horse's reins.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Why?"

 

*

 

Greg held up the floorboard as Mycroft examined the chest. 

"Mm... rusted, but I can certainly try." Mycroft reached for the roll of fabric beside him on the floor, unwrapping it with care. "Have you enough strength left to light a fire?"

Greg bit the corner of his mouth. 

"Erm... honestly, I've had a fairly tiring - a-and I don't have a lot of control when I'm - "

Without a blink, Mycroft turned and leased a handful of flames towards the fireplace. They poured between his fingers like a stream of water, graceful and easy. Within moments, the small room around them flooded with a deep orange glow. A fire roared up in the grate; its warmth swept the space in a rush.

Casually Mycroft returned his attention to the lock, and selected a pick from the roll.

Greg closed his mouth. 

"Can you teach me?" he asked. Mycroft glanced up at him. "That," he said.  _ "Anything _ like that. Please."

Mycroft huffed, reaching beneath the floorboard. "You know how to produce flames already."

"How do I make it happen like  _ that?  _ Not just - spewing all over everywhere."

"Practice," Mycroft said. "Building your endurance. A long day lounging in a cart like an emperor helps..." He bent close to the lock, placing his tongue between his teeth as he fitted the pick. "Might I ask you to step to one side, Gregori? I - rather need the light..."

Greg shifted himself out of the way, and watched as Mycroft tested the lock. He took a minute to try a few different positions, giving experimental twists - then, just as the lock began to turn, the pick snapped in his hands.

"Damn," said Greg. "Did you need - "

"They're fragile," Mycroft assured him, selecting another. "Quite normal to lose a few. I doubt I'll need them for anything else before Whiterun..." 

He knocked with his knuckles on the top of the chest. 

"This contains some considerable weight of metal, based on the echo. Probably worth it."

Greg found the corner of his mouth lifting upwards. "You... can tell that just from...?"

"Mhm."

"Right..."  _ Yet more hidden talents.  _ "How come you carry lockpicks?"

"Utility. Habit." Mycroft snapped another pick, twitching. "I've mentioned my younger brother, I think."

"Briefly."

"Mm. He was a very bright and very bored child."

"Oh, right?"

"He took to locking me into rooms, if I was judged to have annoyed him... our mother found it rather funny. She told me Sherlock merely wanted my attention, and refused to discipline him. She seemed to think that imprisoning me in a larder for several hours was just the sort of fraternal affection that should be fostered..." 

Greg took a moment to thank the gods his brothers had all been too old to bother with things like that. If anything, tormenting their new half-sibling would have suggested some interest in him - some acknowledgement he existed.

Quiet, he watched Mycroft work another pick into the lock.

"So... you got good at - ?"

Mycroft cast him a rueful glance. "Would you believe I once considered myself an adaptable and resourceful young man?"

Greg smiled, keeping hold of the floorboard. "I would."

"Mhm." Biting the inside of his cheek, Mycroft twisted the lock. The pick snapped; he gave a sigh. "Seems I'm out of practice."

"S'fine," said Greg. He moved the floorboard to one hand and flexed the other, producing a ball of light above their heads. "Go on. You're doing well."

Mycroft's eyes glittered in the clean white light. He selected another pick, and returned his attention to the lock. "Thank you."

"My one trick. Might as well use it." Greg watched with interest as Mycroft continued to work, shifting each time the pick stuck. "What else can you do?"

"Mm?"

"Hidden talents... lock-picking. Alchemy."

Mycroft huffed. "I can turn innocuous rocks into mudcrabs."

Greg grinned. "Handy."

"Mm, it's invaluable." Mycroft twisted the pick, frowning. "And you?" he asked. "Hidden talents?"

Greg couldn't fight a laugh. "Ha. I'd be grateful even for non-hidden talents."

"Your modesty," Mycroft murmured, amused, "will be the end of me." 

"What's to be modest about? Big brute from Cyrodiil, can swing a sword and ride a horse. And when I panic, I can burn things down. Rarely helps the situation."

Mycroft smiled, shook his head, and fitted a smaller pick into the lock. 

"I lament this world," he said, twisting. The lock squeaked as it rasped around in a circle. "Making you believe your kindness is neither a talent nor a strength... it has much to answer for."

The lock clicked into place; there came an almost surprised clunk from within the chest. 

Mycroft's satisfied smile was a sight to behold. He withdrew the pick with care, laid it back in its allotted place on the fabric roll, then ran his thumbs along the seam of the chest. As he opened it, the lid cracked and emitted a huff of dust. 

"Can you hold this up?" he asked Greg, who shifted closer to take it. 

Biting his tongue, Mycroft reached an arm into the chest.

He retrieved onto the floor in order, a leather pouch of coins; a few pieces of cheap household silver, candlesticks and a plate; a rolled and tied reindeer fur, the sight of which made Greg groan; and finally, with a brief look of surprise, he withdrew a rather vicious looking sword. The gold-green metal was serrated and curved, with a barb near the hilt and a tip that had been purposely designed to slide as deep into flesh as it could. It hadn't any of the symmetric angles and clean edges of Imperial weapons. This thing knew what it was - a means of murder - and it didn't care to hide it.

"Holy hell," Greg mumbled.

Mycroft handed it to him. 

"Orsimer," he said. Greg turned the blade in his hands; the fire flashed along its razor-sharp edge. "Smithed in one of the strongholds, I imagine. Perhaps another adventurer has been here."

"It's orcish?"

"Mm."

"Definitely better than what I've got right now." Greg hesitated, testing its weight. "Bit nasty-looking, though."

"An advantage sometimes, surely."

"Yeah. Yeah, guess you're right..." Greg glanced at the ruined walls. "Don't think the owner's coming back, do you? What d'you think happened?"

"For whatever reason," Mycroft said, and checked the chest one last time, before easing shut the lid, "they decided to hide a few valuable possessions and run... nobody has been here for years, though."

"They - wouldn't mind if we...?"

"I imagine not."

They lowered the floorboard back into place. 

Greg then slid an arm beneath Mycroft's shoulders, prompting a small sound of surprise - and a smile as Mycroft realised. 

"Not  _ quite  _ so helpless..." he said, permitting Greg to help him to his feet nonetheless.

"Better safe than sorry." Greg guided him to sit down on the bed. "You took a lot of damage from that mudcrab. Ankles are important." 

As Mycroft settled on the straw mattress, Greg placed the coin purse down beside him. 

"There you go," he added. "Not been such a bad day now."

"Gregori," Mycroft said, stern at once. "This money is yours."

"Don't think so, bookseller. You need it more."

"I protest.  _ Strongly. _ You have been responsible for every scrap of hard work on this journey. The money is yours, and I will be concealing it in your bag as you sleep if you attempt to defy me."

Greg smirked, nudging the purse a little closer. 

"You've come all this way from Markarth to sell a few books," he said, "and you're too proud to take free gold? C'mon, Mycroft. Don't be stupid."

"You're confusing stupidity for fairness, Gregori." Mycroft pushed the pouch back to him. "I insist that you take it."

"I've  _ got  _ money," Greg said. "More than I deserve. And I've got more coming in when I get back to Falkreath. So take the gold, alright?"

Mycroft's mouth flattened. "On my conscience," he said, "I will not."

"Gods, you're..."  _ Magnificent when you're stubborn.  _ " - determined. Okay, new idea. We  _ both  _ take the money, and we take it to the inn in Whiterun. We get a couple of their best rooms, a few rounds of their best ale, and the rest can go towards supplies for our trip to the shrine. Is that better?"

Mycroft said nothing, peeved.

Greg took the silence as reluctant agreement.

"Good," he said, with a smile. "That's decided. Now, you're going to hang onto this purse until we get to Whiterun - "

" - tomorrow - "

" - yep, tomorrow - because you're the responsible one. Right?" 

Mycroft shifted, unconvinced. "I suspect a trick," he muttered.

"Nope," said Greg, fondly. "Just sensible decisions. Shall we get some food now? I think we're ready for it."

 

*

 

"Kinda typical, isn't it?"

"Mm?"

"Rain easing off, once you're inside."

Mycroft huffed, watching from the bed as Greg stripped his wet tunic over his head. The eye contact quickened Greg's pulse. 

"A chance to get dry, at least," Mycroft said. He watched Greg drape the sodden linen over a broken beam near the fireplace. "Are we about to become yet better friends?"

Greg grinned, dragging a stool across to the fire. 

"Don't panic," he said. "Keeping the breeches on. M'gonna sit here and dry them. D'you want your clothes off?"

Mycroft seemed to take a moment just to marvel at something. 

"Quite sure you've seen enough of me for one day," he said. 

"We've got a fur," Greg replied, with a smile. "You can cover up with that. Don't lie there in wet clothes all night, Mycroft... you'll catch your death."

Mycroft retained his reluctance for a few seconds, then eased himself up from the bed. "Avert your eyes, please."

Greg laughed; he couldn't help it. He turned towards the fire, folding his arms across his bare chest. "Seriously?"

"For your sake, Gregori."

"Yeah?" Greg bit his lip, grinning down into the flames as he tried not to imagine Mycroft now peeling wet fabric from his body. "Protecting me from something, are you?"

"I can't imagine anyone would wish to behold my lanky frame twice in one day."

_ If only you knew.  _ "You worry too much," Greg said. "For what it's worth, you're not lanky."

Mycroft snorted, but made no comment. 

Greg continued to smile, rubbing his lip between his teeth.

"How's the wound on your hip?" he asked, after a minute or so.

"In need of a warm bath, but... as well as it could be, in the circumstances."

"D'you want more healing draught on it?"

"Perhaps in the morning." There came a discreet tap to Greg's shoulder; he was handed a wet bundle of clothing. "Thank you."

Smiling, Greg hung each garment over the beam beside his own. He took his time, laying them out with care. 

He heard the bed creak quietly behind him.

"Can I turn around yet?" he asked, when he was done.

"You may," Mycroft said. "The coast is clear."

Shifting his stool beside the fire, Greg settled down - and took a discreet glance across the room.

Mycroft was lying on the bed, partly concealed by the thick fur. It covered him from throat to knee, softening the angles of his body into long, plush curves. His height meant that his bare shins and feet were exposed. The firelight flickered over his pale skin; it caught in his eyes, swelling his pupils as they looked at Greg.

_ Gods. _

Greg retrieved his carving from its pouch on his belt, ignoring the slight tremor in his hands. 

"Whiterun tomorrow," he said, to fill the quiet.

"Mm." Mycroft smiled slightly. "Against all odds."

The fire consumed a log with a soft crackle, lapping at the white hot ash. 

"Think we've done well," Greg said. "All things considered."

"Extremely." Mycroft watched him carve, his eyes gentle. "Thank you, Gregori."

"It's alright. I'd have gone mad by this point without the company."

"You'd have been in Whiterun by now," Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow. "Unencumbered."

Greg gave a half-smile, working the knife tip gently between the wooden bear's front paws. It was strange to think he'd ridden the first few days of this journey like there were hellhounds on his tail. 

The Falkreath wizard had probably reached Whiterun and gone by now - with all the gold, too.

_ If I had any honour, I'd feel guilty.  _ He'd been paid to do a job, then got sidetracked by a soul in need. 

_ Not actually paid yet,  _ he supposed.  _ Borrowed supplies. Taken off me when I get back.  _

Besides, his devotion to Mara outstripped his devotion to earthly lords. He couldn't have knelt in her presence with any honour if he'd left Mycroft broken at the side of the road. 

Siddgeir had plenty of money to spare. Greg didn't have all that much honour.

"I made my choice," he told Mycroft, and blew a few curls of wood into the fire. "I don't regret it."

Mycroft smiled, regarding him with a look of quiet peace. "I'm told only the gods live without regret."

Greg bit his lip. 

"I don't regret  _ that  _ choice," he said. "Gods've yet to rule on all the rest."

 


	11. Vows

"May I ask you something?"

Greg glanced up from the embers of the fire; he'd thought Mycroft was asleep.

"Sure," he said, with a smile. "Go on."

Mycroft gazed at him from the bed in the corner. It was late; the fire was low. The moon was just visible through a hole in the roof, as clean and shiny as a pearl in a dark sea. "How long were you in the army?"

Greg glanced down at his hands, rediscovering the brandy bottle he was holding. He took a drink; it made it easier to reply.

"A while," he admitted. His stomach tightened. "Maybe a while longer than I let you believe."

"Are you - still with them now?"

Greg wondered for a second what he was really being asked. "What d'you mean?"

Mycroft seemed to proceed with care.

"You're not... monitoring circumstances?" he said. "For the war effort."

"Monitoring...?" Greg realised; he nearly laughed. "Gods. Mycroft - I'm not a _spy."_

Mycroft's expression filled with immediate regret.

"No, I - I didn't think you were. I shouldn't care either way, Gregori. I don't owe my allegiance to either side of the conflict."

"Mycroft, I'm not an Imperial spy. I'm not a Stormcloak, either. I'm not anything. I'm just here trying to - "

_Escape._

" - make a living. Same as everyone. I'm sure it's suspicious, me being here with this accent, but... gods, I don't care whether the Empire holds nine provinces or eight. Kings and jarls can care about that stuff. I'm busy figuring out how I'll eat through the winter."

Mycroft's voice tightened.

"Forgive me," he said. The expression of quiet distress was more than Greg could bear. "I - didn't mean to accuse you of - "

_Divines on high... what kind of arsehole am I?_

"Hey..." Greg got up from the fire. He left the bottle where it was, and came across to the bed. Sitting beside it on the floor, he looked for Mycroft's gaze - and held it gently when it was given. "Hey, I'm sorry. I know you didn't. I've just had some grief since I got here, that's all. Don't worry about it."

Mycroft surveyed him with regret, his eyes still guarded. "Grief...?"

"People thinking I'm here to 'drive out the Stormcloaks'," Greg said, with a flat expression. Mycroft smiled faintly. "Like I care."

"It... eases." Mycroft pulled the fur closer to his chin. "The hostility. I'll admit that it never quite goes."

 _Doesn't surprise me._ "Nords really don't like outsiders, do they?"

"Nor mages." Mycroft glanced at Greg, unsettled. "I hear they can be treated poorly, in some corners of Skyrim."

Greg's mouth pulled. "Yeah. I... heard that too. Had someone warn me to keep my magic quiet. Told me people can be funny about it."

"They can." Mycroft was quiet for a moment, his eyes soft. "I'm sorry I suggested you're a spy. Truly. It's - simply curious, to see someone choosing to come to Skyrim at this time... so many are leaving. Especially those from Cyrodiil."

Greg tried to smile.

"Maybe I picked the wrong border to cross," he said. He felt his heart tighten, hearing it in his own voice at last. "War. Dragons. Rain."

Mycroft's mouth curved. Greg watched, feeling his smile grow warmer on its own.

"Why've you stayed?" he asked.

The bookseller exhaled, shaking his head as he sought for an answer.

"I like the scenery," he said, then added with a glance, "when it isn't trying to murder me... for much of my life, I liked the quiet. A pity that's now coming to an end."

"Why'd you first pick Skyrim?" Greg asked. "When you left High Rock, I mean."

"A misplaced sense of adventure, perhaps." Mycroft smiled at him from the pillow, amused. This close, it was rather hard to forget he was naked beneath the fur. "I was young. Starry-eyed. I imagined great things for myself, and thought Skyrim would be the place to stage them..."

Greg knew that feeling.

"You came for adventure," he said, grinning, "and you stayed because it was quiet?"

"Mm. Something like that." Mycroft's eyes glittered. "You came to make gold, and now waste it looking after hopeless fools like me."

"We never make sense, do we? People."

"'Making no sense' is one of very few things people can be relied upon to do." Mycroft curled the reindeer fur beneath his chin; just watching him made Greg feel cosy. "The Imperial army is a curious choice, for someone devoted to Mara."

Greg was old and tired enough now to understand it.

"Did it to make my family proud," he said, with a faint smile. "Honour my father. Honour the memory of my mother. See the world, have a purpose..."

He hesitated, wondering if it was too much to say.

"It's weird growing up as... I don't know. Unnecessary child." He gave Mycroft a look of apology, sure he wouldn't want to hear this. "My mum was an unnecessary wife. I - didn't get off to a great start."

Gentle interest stirred in Mycroft's gaze. "Your father was older, when they married?"

"Yeah. Too old, really. His first wife was from another merchant family - joined the companies together - had three sons to carry it on... all business. Then, when she died, he must've been lonely or something. Married my mum." Greg's heart squeezed. "Don't think anyone approved all that much. Pretty young wife at his age."

He drew his knees to his chest, and rested his chin on them.

He could hear Mycroft gathering the courage.

"How old were you when she died?"

Greg's heart ached.

"Five." A pained silence fell; guilt at causing it made him speak again. "Old enough to remember her. Not really old enough to understand."

"What - was the cause of - ?"

"Another baby." Greg glanced across at the fire, watching smoke rise towards the gaps in the roof. "Little girl. Didn't live either."

"I'm so sorry."

Greg shrugged, closing his eyes. "Forty years ago."

"All the same, Greg... I am sorry."

"Not your fault." Quietly Greg adjusted one of the buckles on his boot. "I was an unnecessary fourth son. Left over from an unnecessary second wife. M'grandmother raised me. I tried to help out with the business for a few years - errands and stuff - courier - but reached a point where I just... couldn't really cope, knowing."

"Knowing?"

Greg tried a smile; it felt weak on his mouth.

"Brothers didn't like seeing me there," he explained. "Dad was retired by then. Carius was always kind to me, but... I don't know. It wasn't my family business. Wasn't my family. I was just hovering, watching them all. Little ghost trying to fit in."

"He was _your_ father, too. You couldn't help being the son of a second marriage."

"I know. I know, I just - couldn't put it out of my mind, to be honest. They couldn't, either. I didn't want to go on like that."

Mycroft was quiet for some time. "You enlisted, then?"

Greg hesitated. "Mhm." The weight in his heart was too much to hold; he couldn't keep the words in. He closed his eyes. "Married first," he mumbled, and put his arms around his knees. "Then the army."

"You're - ..." Mycroft's voice tightened; Greg couldn't bring himself to think about that. "I - didn't realise you are married."

"M'not. Not anymore."

"Oh - oh, I'm sorry - "

"No, it's... no, m'not a widower. I..."

Mycroft didn't speak.

Greg felt his heart squeeze its way into his throat.

"Broke her vows," he said. "There were - other men. Fair few. I didn't know about it for years. I wasn't home from campaign all that often. She didn't care that I was always away - she had a good life - daughter of another merchant, big name in Anvil... my dad was delighted when I agreed to it."

He shifted, tightening his arms around his knees.

"She seemed to be happy, back in Anvil on her own... then I came home at the end of summer - found out. All came out."

He didn't dare to look at Mycroft.

When Mycroft spoke, the sympathy in his voice hurt deeper than any blade.

"I'm sorry. Truly. I'm - so sorry she betrayed you."

"It wouldn't - be so bad, if I hadn't..." _Gods almighty, what am I saying?_ Greg pushed his hands back through his hair, breathing in. "Fuck," he muttered. "Sorry. You don't wanna hear all this. D'you want some brandy?"

"Don't - feel you have to stop." Mycroft hesitated, watching him with nervous care. "Please. Not on my account."

Greg's throat gripped around the words.

"S'not good," he warned. "It's... I - w-wasted a lot of my life."

"I'm listening," Mycroft said, and Greg found himself looking at the fire again. His heart strained as he watched it smoke.

"Just - s-spent so long. Those vows. Honouring them, just - _always_ \- never breaking them. Not once. No matter what. I promised Mara I'd look after the wife she'd given me, honour her..."

His shoulders shook. He clamped down on the words until the tremor eased.

"Could've broken them," he said. "Hundred times. Thousand times. Didn't. K-Kept my vows."

"You - could've - ?"

"I-In the army." Greg swallowed, pressing his forehead against his knees. "It's - common. A-Almost feels like it's encouraged, sometimes. Good for morale. Fighting next to men that you're... a-and I - when I was young, I was - like that. F-For other men."

He couldn't lift his eyes. He couldn't handle seeing Mycroft's face.

"My family weren't... they - wanted a good marriage for me. Children. Told myself it was my duty to Mara, be a father, look after a wife. Then after all that... after all the... all the _longing,_ just - all the men I w-wanted, turned down, telling myself she was back in Anvil keeping her vows to me - to find out she was - "

"Greg, I... I'm so sorry."

"Didn't even have kids. S-Suppose I'm lucky I didn't end up raising someone else's - ..." Greg dropped his head, pressing his face against his knees again as he shook. "S-Sorry. Sorry. I've not talked about this before. Not to anyone."

"It's alright. I'm listening."

"You sh-shouldn't have to - "

Gentle fingertips rested on Greg's shoulder, as light as a moth's wings. "Please - c-carry on, if you wish. I'm glad to listen."

Greg's throat gripped.

"Not much else to say," he managed. He drew a shaky breath. "Spent my life living by those vows. Broken now. Still struggling with it a bit."

Mycroft was silent for a while. "You - must miss her dreadfully."

Greg felt discomfort slug its way through his heart. "N-No. I don't."

Sometimes it felt like the worst part. Sometimes it felt like the best.

"H-Honestly? I hardly knew her. Hardly knew her when we got married, then in a couple of months I was off into the army. It was like coming home to a stranger. I couldn't ever really - w-want her like I - like I wanted - other men. Never felt comfortable with her, like I felt with them."

_Mara forgive me._

"Just hurt," he managed, his voice tight. Mycroft's fingers began to rub a quiet circle on his shoulder. "Spent so long trying to honour her. Humiliated me. Everybody in town knew. She'd stopped bothering to hide the other man - stopped keeping it quiet - lived openly with him as her lover. Blacksmith. Everybody knew."

He could conjure up that day around him in an instant, as real as if it were happening now.

"People staring at me as my legion walked through the gates," he said, his voice hollow. "All whispering behind their hands... I stayed faithful for twenty years to a wife I - I wouldn't have chosen, if I'd - then, in the end, sh-she didn't even bother to hide that she - "

"You stayed faithful to your vows," Mycroft said. He gripped Greg's shoulder. "Not merely to her. To _Mara,_ Gregori. You made promises to the divine. That is _nothing_ to regret."

Greg felt it wash through him in a wave.

"Y-Yeah," he breathed - and at last, he dared to look up. Mycroft was watching him with care, his gaze infinitely gentle. "Even if I didn't - e-even if I wasn't - "

"You were very noble," Mycroft said, "to have kept your word."

Greg shuddered, shutting his eyes a second. "For Mara. S'Mara I care about. I - d-did a good job. Can hold my head high, when I go to her."

As he opened his eyes again, he found Mycroft's gaze full of the light of the fire.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said. "I'm sorry for what you experienced."

From being unable to look, Greg found himself unable to look away.

"Haven't laid down with a man in twenty years," he mumbled. His pulse dropped. "Miss it. It was - it - f-felt real. Worry that I wasted my life sometimes."

He pressed his cheek to his knee, shivering.

"S-Sorry. You didn't need to hear all this."

"You've no reason to apologise at all," Mycroft said. "You haven't told me anything shameful." There came a gentle moment of quiet, as Mycroft rubbed his shoulder. "I can't imagine how anyone could be disloyal to you," he said. "It - distresses me even to contemplate it."

Greg felt his heart squeeze. "You're sweet."

"Sincerely, Greg. If it isn't too much to say... the woman was quite clearly beleaguered by some significant mental deficiency."

Greg couldn't help a smile.

"My fault," he said, throat thick. He swallowed around it. "Leaving her on her own."

"Did she know you intended to join the Legion, when you married?"

"Y-Yeah... yeah, she knew."

"Had she ever expressed any wish that you would leave the army to spend more time with her?"

"No, she - said it was fine. Suited her."

"Then I'm afraid she has no defence," said Mycroft, simply. "Her conduct towards you was inexcusable. And I'm sorry you were treated so poorly."

Greg felt his heart grow.

"Thanks," he murmured. He hadn't realised he needed to hear that. "It - wasn't good. But it's over, now. Past the worst..."

Mycroft touched his shoulder once more; the contact was gentle and calming. "Is that why you came to Skyrim? To... heal?"

"S-Suppose so." Greg breathed in slowly. _I hate lying. I hate lying to you. I should tell you, fucking tell you, warn you... I can't bloody keep lying to you._ "New start, y'know? Just me. Get it right this time."

The silence settled around them.

As Greg looked up at Mycroft, he realised all at once it had been an incredibly long day.

Mycroft held his gaze, calm; his expression was almost protective. He gave Greg a gentle smile as he watched, and Greg found his mouth lifting with it.

"What about you?" he asked, tentatively. "D'you - have you...?"

"No, I... never had the pleasure." Mycroft raised a wry eyebrow. "My studies. My work."

"Your quiet life," Greg said, and watched Mycroft's small smile deepen.

"Mm." Mycroft withdrew his hand from Greg's shoulder, easing it back beneath the fur with him. "My mother would have loved grandchildren, I imagine. Insisted I raise them in High Rock."

He gave Greg a weary glance.

"Quite the incentive never to have any," he added.

Greg's heart stirred. He felt it lift, just a little.

"Did you ever come close?" he asked. "Marriage, I mean. Family."

"Ah... no. A few regrettable and brief associations in my youth, but..." Mycroft seemed to brace himself, gathering the reindeer fur around his throat again. "Good men are few and far between."

_Gods._

"M'sorry," Greg murmured. He could feel his heart pounding in the back of his mouth. _You like... you're - like me. Other men._ "M'sorry you..."

Mycroft smiled gently.

"Quite alright," he said. "Alone, but rarely lonely."

Greg had spent his life surrounded by people, lonely as hell. _What a pair,_ he thought, watching Mycroft gaze back at him.

"What kind of men do you like?" he asked, unable to stop himself.

Mycroft laughed at the cheek of it. He smiled as he dropped his gaze, a slight flush of colour arising in his cheeks.

"Clever ones?" Greg guessed, with a smile. "Big brains?"

"Ah... no, I... don't have much taste for arrogance. Quite enough arrogance of my own to deal with." Mycroft met his gaze, amused and fond. His eyes sparkled. "What manner of man do you tend to?"

It was years since Greg had had the chance; he still knew what had set his heart racing, though. "Complicated ones."

"Complicated?" Mycroft's beard had a hundred shades of red in it. Each short hair was gilded a different colour by the fire, shining as he smiled. "Sounds rather risky."

Catching himself gazing at Mycroft's mouth, Greg pointedly retrieved his eyes.

"Dunno about risky. I like interesting, though. I like... depth."

"Athletic types?" Mycroft murmured, amused. "Sword, shield... muscles and scars..."

 _Gods help me._ "No," Greg admitted, his pulse picking up, "not quite." He smiled. "Got enough scars of my own to deal with."

Mycroft's eyes softened.

After a moment, he said,

"I imagine it's been difficult for you... adjusting. The end of a marriage."

"Still learning," Greg said. "Forget I'm free of it, sometimes. Habit." He glanced across at the fire. "Spent twenty years telling myself I'm a married man with vows to keep... now they're gone into the wind. Dead leaves. Blowing away, one by one."

Mycroft nodded gently, understanding.

"It's difficult," he said, "leaving what you know behind."

"Mm. Getting there, though." _More and more everyday._

"Do you think you'd ever marry again?"

 _Gods, I'd love to._ "Wouldn't rule it out," Greg said, with a faint smile. He watched the blue-grey eyes warm as he looked into them. "Settle down somewhere. Buy a farm, maybe. Keep the bed warm at night."

He reached up to rub the back of his neck, thinking about it.

"I wouldn't want to be away, though. I'd want to stay this time. Do it properly. Together, everyday. No leaving home to find work."

"'Together' is an admirable dream to nurture," Mycroft said, and stretched a little beneath the fur. Greg watched the lines of his body stir. "Curious, how often endings are truly beginnings."

_What would you do?_

_If I came close - kissed you right now - leant down to stroke your feet, your legs - run my hand over that fur, feel you stretch -_

_Would you push me away?_

_Would you pull me closer?_

"Where d'you want to end up?" Greg asked. He suddenly needed to know. "What's at the finish for you?"

"Not sure I really have a master plan." Mycroft lowered his eyes to the edge of the bed, thinking. He began to toy with a piece of straw. "Safety, perhaps. Enough gold to live modestly somewhere quiet."

Greg watched the straw turn between his fingers. "Books?"

"Ha. Yes, I suppose 'books' would be part of it..." Mycroft cast him a look of amusement, then stretched out his injured ankle. Brief pain crossed his face. "Someone to lie beside at night would be very comforting... someone patient to spend my days with. But I imagine we all long for that."

Greg's heart thumped softly. "'Patient'?" he said.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I'd make a wearisome spouse."

"Wild animals scratching at every door," Greg supposed, his eyes bright. "Trying to get in at you."

Mycroft smirked, folding the straw between his fingers.

"Mm. Unable to bathe without being savaged by crustaceans... constant rescue needed. I probably shouldn't wish that fate upon someone."

_You could wish it on me, darlin'._

"Sure you'll make someone proud someday." Greg felt his heart pull against the front of his chest. "He'll be a lucky man."

Mycroft scoffed, smiling as he dropped his gaze.

"Flatterer," he murmured.

 

*

 

As Greg laid his bed roll out on the floor, the bookseller stirred from his drowsy half-sleep.

"The bed is yours," Mycroft mumbled, shifting. "Pass me my tunic - "

Greg had the overpowering urge to lean up and stroke his cheek, hush him back to sleep.

"I'll win this argument," he said, gently. "Lie the fuck down."

"Greg, you've worked all day - "

"If you leave that bed," Greg warned, his voice fond, "I won't use it. We'll _both_ sleep on the floor."

"Greg, please. I feel very guilty..."

"S'no need to. You're doing what I want you to. So lie down."

Mycroft made a noise of reluctance. "This goes beyond saving me from wildlife," he said, regarding Greg with sleepy unease. "You... needn't suffer so I can be comfortable..."

Greg smiled, undeterred. "I'd suffer watching you sleep on the floor. You know that?"

"Why? I - don't see why you - "

"It's just who I am, alright? This is who you're stuck with. So make the most of it." Greg settled down, drawing the cloak across himself as a blanket. It was still warm from the fire. "Early start in the morning? Get ourselves to Whiterun?"

"I insist that I pay for our accommodation when we get there," Mycroft mumbled, resigned, and Greg felt his pulse quicken. _Our accommodation. Not 'your'. 'Our'._

Something about sharing an 'our' with Mycroft would always take his breath.

He told himself to behave, and closed his eyes to sleep.

"Mycroft?" he murmured, after a minute's quiet.

"Mm?" Mycroft stirred beneath the fur. "Are you alright?"

"Thank you. For listening."

He could almost hear the smile in Mycroft's voice.

"I'm moved that you shared, Greg."

 _When did I go from Gregori to Greg?_ "Did I share too much?"

"No. Not in the least. Put the thought from your mind."

"I'm - sorry I lied about - the army."

"Quite alright." There came a slight pause. "Very natural to be guarded around a stranger," Mycroft said. "We've all left things behind."

Greg smiled, tilting his head towards the bed. "Even you?" he teased.

Mycroft huffed. "Only the gods live without regret."

"Now _there's_ a story... go on. My turn to listen."

"Mhm." Mycroft stretched, his shape shifting beneath the fur. "Get me very drunk in Whiterun," he murmured, "and perhaps I will incinerate your faith in me."

"Yeah?" Greg bit his lip. "Looking forward to it."

"I am not." Mycroft drew the fur tight around his throat. "Good night, Greg... sleep well."

"You too, trouble." Greg closed his eyes. "Scream if you need me in your dreams."

 


	12. Friend

Greg's mouth was soft; its stroke across Mycroft's neck sent shivers coursing through his blood. As Greg moved in him, easing the breathless fever, Mycroft could only moan and let the pleasure swell. The feeling of fullness was incomparable. It hadn't felt like this when he was young - years ago now, countless years - but it hadn't been Greg, then. It hadn't been the man to whom he belonged. He felt as if he were perfectly at peace in this moment, perfectly safe, Greg on top of him and protecting him, moving slowly inside him, stirring, flooding pleasure into Mycroft's abdomen and his thighs and up his back where he arched against the fur. He crossed his ankles behind Greg's thighs and pulled him closer. With a shudder and a moan, Greg slid deeper into his body.

Pleasure ached through Mycroft's senses.

Whining, fretful with it now and sweating, he strained against the fur and gripped the muscles in Greg's back.

There came a soft and gentle bite into his neck. The teasing little flutters of pain amidst the pleasure were enough to make his every muscle contract. Greg held onto him as he begged, driving slowly into Mycroft's body, over and over, rocking him as if to sleep.

_I don't want to sleep - I don't want to wake -_

_Gods, don't let me wake -_

Greg's shoulders were growing hard to hold onto. Mycroft's hands kept slipping through them like smoke. He couldn't feel the fullness anymore, the rhythm he needed, and whimpering didn't bring it back. He lifted his chin for more kisses at his neck, desperate for love, desperate not to be left here - but they didn't come. He panted in the emptiness, suddenly missing Greg's weight. There was only cold air.

Mycroft realised he was gone, and the dream was falling into fragments around him.

Grief wracked through his chest.

_No - no, no - one more minute -_

_One more minute to - to feel - to be close to -_

The morning light was cold; the air stung his eyes as they watered. His heart was pounding.

_Gods, why - why do you torment me with -_

Mycroft covered his face with both hands. His body was filmed with sweat beneath the fur. He wanted to kick it off, but couldn't bring himself to expose the state he'd gotten into. He knew he was hard. He didn't need to check. He could feel himself aching, uncomfortable and close; it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest.

_I want to make love - I want to be held, I want to be kissed -_

Distressed, he took a glance beside the bed. Gregori was lying there asleep, utterly at peace and breathing slowly in the morning light.

Mycroft's heart slugged with distress. It wanted to be allowed to hold him. It strained for Greg's touch as desperately if they were lovers. It didn't understand that they weren't.

_And he was married._

Mycroft could barely believe it.

To force a son into such a situation - that only a marriage against all his natural inclinations would earn him the approval of his family... it made Mycroft almost nauseous with distress. A little boy who'd lost his mother. He'd been left with a family who couldn't even find it in their hearts to close their arms around him, love him, take him for one of their own.

_I would take you for my own - in a heartbeat - and I have known you four days._

_And I would - gods, love you - make love with you - lie down with you, kiss you - show you that you aren't a lumbering brute, that you are wonderful - give every whisper of your kindness back to you -_

_By Oblivion... I can't go on like this..._

Mycroft's throat tightened as he swallowed.

He wouldn't settle, lying here and thinking. He wouldn't calm himself back to any semblance of sanity in this state. He had to get up.

Shifting beneath the fur, he crawled out from the top of the bed. He winced as he moved barefoot across the floorboards, limping on his ankle and desperate not to wake Greg. He retrieved his clothes silently from by the fire. They were dry now, and warm.

As they brushed across his skin, even the stroke of fabric felt good.

_No. No, for heaven's sake. Stop it. Have some self-control._

Mycroft pulled on every layer that he could, grimacing as he adjusted his swollen erection into his trousers. He couldn't stay inside the shelter. He couldn't sit somewhere Greg was trying to sleep in peace, while he was still twitching like this.

_Air._

_Calm. Ground myself._

Mycroft stayed long enough to retrieve a leather pouch from his satchel, and a small boline knife. He then headed out into the morning light.

 _Lavender. Flourishes in cold steppe climates._ Combined with a little ground boar tusk, it would fortify physical strength. Mycroft cut several samples and placed them in the pouch, ignoring the shake of his hands. There was tundra cotton here in abundance too, and the two plants together would increase resistance to magic. His Breton blood already aided him in that regard, but the potions could be sold for a small handful of coins. He took his time stripping the fluff from several plants, winding it around his fingers into strands. He could feel his heart rate slowing; he was calming. _Red mountain flower._ Rather more frail than the other varieties. The same red his hair had been as a boy. Combined with certain parts of a briar heart, it would support a mage's ability to cast spells for several hours.

_Perhaps the apothecary in Whiterun will have..._

_Gods know I am in need of restoration._

Sitting himself down in the wild grass, Mycroft rolled a few petals between his fingertips. He placed them into his mouth, frowning. _Bitter._ A hot meal and safety would help him more, but the flowers would nourish his inner strength for a while. His magic felt weak and unsupported without any kind of comfort around him. It was starting to show. Even a damn mudcrab was now fast enough to hurt him, and he felt pathetic for it.

At least the two of them would be in Whiterun by this evening. There would be a fire, and food, and rest.

Chewing the petals with a grimace, Mycroft shut his eyes.

 _And then?_ he thought.

They would journey to Mara's shrine together. The goddess of love, marriage and family. He would stand there with Gregori, watching him pray.

_Gods, I can't bear it... he is -_

_But I am -_

It had been four days - four days of perfect, protective companionship - and he was no closer to telling Greg the truth. He was no closer to treating Greg honourably. It made his stomach clench with distress to look back and realise the extent of the deception he'd now sustained. Every additional day had only doubled his wretchedness.

The problem was he'd started believing in his own lie.

He kept forgetting to remember it wasn't real. He slipped too easily into thinking of himself as Mycroft, quiet Markarth bookseller - when in reality he wasn't anything of the sort. He was a thief and a coward and a runaway. Lying to Greg had been a panicked mistake. Nurturing the lie was inexcusable. He could have confided in Greg at any time over the past four days.

Instead -

_Instead..._

Mycroft shivered, drawing the morning air into his lungs.

Instead, he'd fallen in love. He'd pushed the inconvenient facts of the matter to the back of his mind, as if the problem would somehow solve itself. Whiterun was now less than a day away. They might even reach it by nightfall. His borrowed time was running out.

But it felt so good to be with Greg - to listen to him talk, to sit near him, to share food with him. Last night Greg had shared the unguarded centre of his soul with Mycroft. In return, he knew almost nothing about Mycroft at all.

_And now... now, when I dream, I..._

He couldn't bear the thought of seeing Greg ride away.

What other option was there?

Greg had mentioned a friend in Solitude - a business of some kind, working his way up there. If Mycroft had behaved with any decency four days ago, he'd have explained to Greg the difficult situation in which he found himself - the reason for his leaving Falkreath - and perhaps they'd have headed for the capital together.

As it was, the more days that passed by, the more rightfully aggrieved Greg would be when he discovered that he'd aided in the flight of a thief.

"Gods help me," Mycroft whispered, covering his face with his hands.

"Hey..." said a voice. Mycroft's heart threw itself into his throat. "What're you doing out here? Are you alright?"

Greg had come to look for him. He was walking this way through the wild grass, looking as concerned as if Mycroft were lying here bleeding.

Mycroft felt his innards twist with guilt as Greg knelt on the ground in front of him, checking him, gazing into his face.

"What's wrong?" Greg asked. He searched Mycroft's eyes. "You're pale... what's the matter?"

_You are wonderful._

"Fresh air. I..." Mycroft's throat tightened. "U-Unsettling dreams."

Sympathy softened Greg's gaze. "What about?" he asked, and Mycroft felt his heart rip itself quietly in two.

"Nothing of probability." He hesitated, glancing down at the leather pouch lying open in his lap. "I - thought I'd gather - ... calming."

Greg placed a hand on his elbow. The gentle concern made it all so much worse.

"Should've woken me up," he said. "You let me drench you in the boiling black mess of my soul last night... don't be alone when I'm here. We're friends."

Mycroft's throat gripped itself almost too tight to speak. He took a moment just to look at Greg - those gentle eyes, deep and dark; that warm and quiet smile; his handsome face. Greg didn't even seem to realise he was handsome. He was too humble to have considered it.

Swallowing, Mycroft pulled his eyes away.

"I'm sorry I worried you. I didn't intend to."

"No - gods, don't think that. It's not like that." Greg reached for his hand, gently stopping him from pulling at his torn cuff. "Just wanted to make sure you were alright, that's all... is there something on your mind?"

Heat threatened to burn across the rise of Mycroft's eyes. He blinked it back, inhaling in silence. "It hardly matters."

Greg didn't seem convinced. He looked down at Mycroft's lap, then reached for one of the red mountain flowers, picking it up gently. He brushed his thumb across the fragile petals.

"What do these ones do?"

Mycroft wanted to lean against him and weep. _You're going to leave. You'll leave, and I'm in love with you, and I lied to you._

"Red mountain flower." His throat squeezed. "P-Primarily a magic restorant, but... combined with white cap, it restricts magic." The facts were a comfort to his struggling mind; they felt like something he could rely upon. "With deathbell, it creates a poison."

Greg gave him a faint smile. "Doesn't everything with deathbell make a poison?"

Mycroft swallowed. "I-It is a hostile plant."

"Yeah?" Greg placed the flower back in his lap with the others. "D'you get them around Markarth?"

"N-Not so often."

"Wrecks my head that you know all this stuff, you know? Just from books." Greg smiled. "Is there something makes bad dreams go away?"

 _I am a despicable creature._ "Time," Mycroft murmured. "Self-control."

"Not so sure about the second," Greg said, raising a fond eyebrow. "We can get you time, though... it'll fade. And you'll sleep better tonight in the inn."

Mycroft shivered. "A welcome prospect," he admitted, and Greg gave a huff.

"Mm. Don't think I'll ever be so glad to see a proper bed in all my life." He watched Mycroft for a moment, his eyes warm. "Come inside and eat," he said. "Apples are past their best, and the bread's stale... but we've got some cheese still. Dried beef. Might settle you a bit."

Mycroft curled his fingers into his palms. _I must know._

He gathered his courage.

"Why..."  _Gods almighty, ask. Ask him and we will know._ "Why do you - care about me?"

Greg didn't respond for a moment. In the silence, there was an answer; Mycroft wasn't brave enough to listen for it, fearing what he might hear.

"Should I not?" Greg asked, uneasily.

 _No._ Mycroft's heart tightened. 

"I - don't understand why you - go to such lengths to..."

"Do you - want me to back off?"

"No - no, I... I simply - "

"Can I ask something?" Greg said, and Mycroft felt cold cascade down the back of his neck. This was it, the question that could have been asked for days - and if he lied now, it was over. He deserved every moment of the misery about to unfold. "You don't trust many people, do you?"

Surprise flickered through Mycroft's heart.

He looked into Greg's eyes, lost.

_Do I trust people?_

He supposed he had, once. Under the old jarl's rule, he'd been treated with a touch of contempt by some of the Nords in the household - that was to be expected - but he'd never have recognised himself as untrusting. The world had been quiet and orderly. In that peace, he'd made a place for himself. Dengeir liked him for his dry cynicism and his flashes of wit, and how well he'd gotten on with Nenya.

She and Mycroft would go to the tavern and drink alto wine together in a corner, discussing books and politics and days long gone. The two of them were respected and welcome. They were happy.

Then came Siddgeir.

Within weeks Nenya was worn to threads, trying to run the entirety of Falkreath hold on her own. Those members of the old jarl's household who wanted to retain their positions had transformed before Mycroft's eyes into just the sort of people Siddgeir liked to have around - sneering and vain and bullish, entitled arseholes who lived for hounds and hawk and whatever else their new jarl fancied doing that day. All at once, Nenya was considered the dull quill-pusher who ordered the wine; Mycroft became an irrelevancy, a strange old Breton who could cast a few funny spells, huddled away in his rooms with his strange books and his potions. His respected position had become a joke overnight.

He'd tried to maintain a dignified indifference, carrying out his duties with grace. He kept to himself as much as he could.

At first, Siddgeir had encouraged a sort of joky disdain for his court wizard. Mycroft now wondered if his lack of reaction was what had piqued Siddgeir's darker interests - a determination not to be ignored by the stuck-up foreign wizard; an insistence that if Siddgeir wanted Mycroft to be unhappy, he would be unhappy; a wish to demonstrate to Mycroft that his will was subordinate to Siddgeir's own, that his dignity laid within the jarl's dominion, and that Siddgeir would have it if he wanted it.

As his distress led him back to the question, and he found Greg gently watching him, Mycroft realised he had only one answer.

"Recent circumstances haven't permitted me much choice," he said.

Greg took this answer in silence. He seemed to think for a while, struggling with something - then said,

"Am I too much?"

Mycroft's heart twisted. "No, Greg. You're incredibly kind. I like your company very much."

"You - know I don't mind looking out for you... don't you?"

 _I am a liar. A thief. If you knew, you wouldn't be within a mile of me._ "I'm - h-hardly easy to get along with."

Greg's mouth pulled.

"Happen to enjoy your company," he said. "I think we get along."

"We do," Mycroft said at once, his pulse quickening. He felt heat rush across his face. "Of course we... I - I'm very glad to - "

"I don't care that you're not used to the wilds... it's not a problem."

"No, it - it isn't that..."

"Then what's wrong?" Greg said, softly. "How've I upset you without trying?"

"You haven't," Mycroft said in despair, and before he knew what he was doing, he'd reached for Greg. He laid a hand on his arm, his fingers shaking. "You haven't upset me. You... g-gods, Greg, I owe you my _life._ I'd like to stay with you. It's simply that I - p-perhaps - haven't been as - "

"Come to Solitude," Greg said. Mycroft's heart collapsed inside his chest. He felt it fall; he let it drop. Greg searched his face. "After the shrine... when you're done in Whiterun."

Mycroft couldn't breathe.

"They - like books there, right?" Greg smiled, tentatively. "I've gotta go back to Falkreath first, but... you can come with me. We'll take the road up through Markarth."

_No._

_No - please -_

Greg bit his lip. "You can show me where you live," he said. "I'll keep you safe on the road... get you home in one piece. Then onto Solitude."

_Home._

_A home I don't have, in a city I saw once twenty years ago. Where I sell books that I don't own._

Mycroft's heart strained.

One word escaped his mouth. "Falkreath?"

"It's - not really my horse," Greg said. "But I'll have pay there, from a job. Might be enough to buy it, if I'm lucky... if not, there'll be a cheap one. It'll get us to Solitude okay."

Greg hesitated. Mycroft's nerves were unsettling him; Mycroft could see it in his face. He visibly gathered his courage.

"Unless you - don't want to - ?"

Mycroft had never hated himself so keenly in his life.

_'I'm not a bookseller. I'm sorry. I'm a runaway. Please don't be angry.'_

"I..."

_What else can I say? What else can I do?_

"I - I'm afraid I - won't," he said. "To Falkreath."

As he watched the hope die quietly in Greg's eyes, pain jagged through his chest.

_Say something. Explain. Some reason._

"It - it wouldn't be worth my time to..." Mycroft's heart thudded. "Books aren't - "

"S'alright," Greg said. A strained silence fell. "It's okay. Just wondered if you'd want to, that's all."

 _Please. Please don't._ "I-I'd like to go to Solitude with you. If you - "

"No, it's - fine. I understand."

"Perhaps we... if you make your way there, then we'll - we'll meet - "

Greg lowered his eyes.

"Maybe," he said. His smile was small and brave; it wracked Mycroft's chest with pain. "You - should hire a guard in Whiterun. Get you to Solitude safely. You'll never make it on your own."

_Come with me._

_Please. Come with me, please._

"Greg, I - I'm sorry."

Greg looked away.

"Don't have to keep saying sorry to me," he murmured. "It's fine, Markarth. It's always been fine."

There was an uncomfortable pause. Mycroft curled his fingers into the sleeve of Greg's tunic, unable to speak. _'I lied. I'm sorry. I want to go with you.'_

As Greg got to his feet without a sound, Mycroft had to let go. He felt his heart shatter in the silence. He gazed up at Greg in despair, no words coming forth from his mouth. _'I lied. I'm sorry. Let me explain.'_

"Take your time, alright?" Greg's voice didn't sound like his own. "M'gonna get the horse ready. No rush, though. Food inside if you want it."

He moved away through the wild grass, his tread quiet and heavy, and Mycroft watched him go.

His vision blurred.

He put his head into his hands.

 


	13. Gate

_At least I know._

As they rumbled in silence along the road, towards the great walled city in the distance, Greg applied the words to his wounds like a salve to a burn.

_At least I can stop thinking about it._

They worked for a few minutes at a time - long enough to calm him and ease the tightness in his throat. The distress always returned, but the words helped.

He'd wondered, he'd asked, and now he knew.

It was a peaceful pain.

Driving together like this was hell. Not a word had passed between them in an hour even though they sat side-by-side, elbows touching. He could feel Mycroft willing the miles to pass.

_Shouldn't have asked you - shouldn't have put you in that position. Sharing a cart with me all day, after you had to reject me. Should've waited until Whiterun, should've..._

_Shouldn't have..._

_At least I know now._

Tightening the reins around his hands, Greg reminded himself this made some things easier. Their trip to the shrine would be off. Someone in town would know where it was - mark it on the map for him - he'd go alone, fast on the horse, and he'd kneel for Mara. _I'm sorry I tried to try again. I'm sorry. It's too soon. I know it is. I'm glad he said no. I'll come to you alone, kneel for you, show you the wounds, ask you to take me in your hands -_

_At least I know -_

_At least I know now, at least I don't have to -_

Easier in Whiterun. He could get a night's sleep, go to the jarl first thing, hand over the scroll, get supplies, get back on the horse and go. A lonely week back to Falkreath.

He'd be right back where he'd started - and it would be like they never met. He'd claim his pay from Siddgeir, get more supplies, and... go.

_Can't go to Markarth._

_Can't go to Solitude._

He owed Mycroft that, not to - gods, _follow_ him - act like he was trying to find Mycroft, when Mycroft clearly - when he had no interest in -

_'Recent circumstances haven't permitted me much choice.'_

_Gods, stupid - stupid, stupid - how could I -_

_Fuck -_

_Fuck, at least I know -_

Riften. He'd go there. Mara's temple was in Riften, and there'd be work. It was all he needed to know about the place. The fragile threads of his life were fraying in his hands again, and as he let go, he would reach for Mara. She was the only choice. This was all an embarrassing mistake, and he'd forget it in time - the Breton bookseller he'd forced into his company and fawned over like a puppy.

Running Mycroft's experience of the last few days through his mind, Greg had wanted to curl up and die.

The guy had been trying to get on his way, sell some books - ended up having to rely on a stranger - a stranger who was then talking about staying together, going halfway across the country together...

_Mara, just - just don't let me be near people again. Don't let me do this to them._

_Fuck._

_At least I know. At least I asked. I can get us to Whiterun now and let him go on his way. My fault for falling. My fault for thinking._

_New life. Same damn mistakes._

He'd barely thought about the job he'd been given to do. There was a scroll sitting at the bottom of his satchel that he'd not looked at in days. He'd been too busy fussing over Mycroft, trying to be someone's hero again - thinking the two of them were getting along, getting close, opening his soul to the man uninvited, never once taking a second to realise Mycroft had no choice but to be with him right now. He'd literally been forced to rely on Greg to get to safety.

After so long in the army, you forgot that people were free to forge their own bonds. You forgot that normal people met, and talked, and spent time together, _then_ decided if they would stick around. You didn't just get paired up by fate, for better and for worse.

He'd been given a family and told to honour them, so he had. He'd been given a wife and told to love her, so he had. He'd been given a legion, and told to risk everything for them, so he had.

Then it seemed like the gods had given him Mycroft to care for.

_Doesn't work that way. Real world now._

_At least I know._

Whiterun was visible in the distance. The great keep was built on top of a cliff. This far away, it looked like one of the hills that surrounded it, shining gold in the late afternoon sun.

They'd barely talked all day.

Greg had forced enough unwanted attention on Mycroft already. He didn't blame Mycroft for withdrawing into silence. He wished he'd not asked. He wished he'd waited until Whiterun to ruin it, and they could have had one last day, one last day to talk, to act like -

_One last day to exploit him for company, you mean?_

_One last day to kid yourself._

_Doesn't matter._

This time tomorrow, he'd be headed for Mara's shrine. He'd be on the road again by himself, like he'd intended to be - like he'd promised himself he would be. This would all be in the past.

And Mycroft would go on, wincing when he remembered the time he'd been forced to travel with some barbarian for five days, sleeping under a cart together.

_Fuck. I made him cuddle up to me. Share a cloak. Gods, I actually made him do that._

_I'm a fucking idiot. I'm a moron. I can't believe I - I thought -_

_Fuck. At least I know now._

_At least I've learned._

 

*

 

Gregori hadn't spoken in hours. He'd kept them moving quietly along the road, shifting only to reach for his satchel and the bottle of mead inside it. He wasn't trying to coax Mycroft to eat. He wasn't checking on him gently any more. When they stopped at noon to water the horse, Mycroft took himself off the road to sit and fumble a little healing oil over his wounds. Greg left him to his privacy, stayed by the horse, and didn't ask when he returned.

He wasn't looking Mycroft in his eyes anymore, merely near them. His voice - what little he used it - was quiet and respectful and calm.

 _And you feel you've some right to be upset, do you?_ _Quite right that he should pull away._

_Kind to you all this time. Cared for you. All you have done is lie._

_He'll be safe without you._

Mycroft's stomach writhed when he thought of the danger he'd put Gregori through already - all for his own preservation. If Siddgeir's men had caught them, they'd have assumed Greg was party to his crime. They could well have killed Greg, cut his throat and left him by the road - a good man. An honest man, who knew nothing of what Mycroft had done.

_Never even crossed your mind._

He was so glad to have been rescued, that he didn't think whether he deserved to be.

Leaving Falkreath, he'd felt certain his actions were right. He'd imagined himself arriving alone in some distant city, speaking to the steward and buying whatever property was available - the cheapest they had - then living out his days as modestly and quietly as he could. It felt like fair recompense for what he'd suffered. If he'd completed his tenure as court wizard under Dengeir, he'd have been granted a comfortable home and servants when he was old.

Riding from the city with Siddgeir's money, he'd told himself it was far less than he deserved. What he carried was a sorry and insulting compensation.

Then he'd met a truly good soul, a man who offered his horse and his food and his company without a thought - and he'd realised the black stains all over his hands.

_He thinks you've exploited him, and you have._

_He showed you his wounds - he bathed yours. The kindness you can give in return is to walk away._

In Whiterun he'd have to try and pay Gregori. What a distressing mess that would be. The man deserved payment for what he'd been through, but Mycroft could hardly bare the thought.

_At least our parting now will be..._

And in time Gregori would look back, and see Mycroft for what he was - callous and exploitative. He would find someone to share his roads with, someone honest and kind. A man like Greg would not go unloved for long. That, Mycroft knew beyond all doubt. He'd known Greg only days, and found him so easy to love it drove all thoughts of deception out of his head. Just being near to Greg felt good - watching him carve a small figurine by the light of the fire, watching him run a fond hand over their horse's neck, watching him smile as he strode through the trees.

Of all the things he'd expected on the road to Whiterun, love wasn't one of them.

 _Gods keep us guessing,_ Mycroft thought, gazing down at his hands.

The sun was beginning to sink over the horizon. Another hour, and they'd be in Whiterun. He hadn't imagined it would feel like this.

His unhappy thoughts drifted in the quiet, lost amidst the rumbling of the wheels.

_Winterhold. I will leave tomorrow._

_The college. Teach, perhaps. Bright young things._

Siddgeir wouldn't follow him so far north. The college would understand that he'd been persecuted - every mage in Skyrim had faced hostility in their life. He'd spend tonight in Whiterun, buy new clothing and supplies, wash his wounds and acquire a horse of his own, then leave with the sunrise. He didn't want to linger.

He didn't want Greg to have to see him.

_In Mara's name, I will miss you. I will always be sorry._

_Long after I've forgotten Siddgeir, and what he did, I will remember you._

_And I will be sorry._

 

*

 

As they passed through Whiterun's outer walls, it struck Mycroft that he felt not the least bit safer. Guards with torches looked down from high wooden towers as the cart rolled its way between them - a surprising number of men for such a calm night.

His heart rate hitched as they approached the gate. A guard stepped forwards to meet them; firelight from his torch gleamed against his helmet.

"Halt!"

Greg pulled on the reins; the cart swayed to a stop.

"City's closed with the dragons about," the guard said. "Official business only."

"Dragons?" said Greg. Mycroft's stomach tightened at the sound of his voice. He hadn't heard it in hours. "What d'you mean?"

"They say Helgen got hit by one." The guard nodded up at the walls, and the many men watching the sky. "One of those horrors comes here, we'll be ready. Until then, city's closed to all travellers."

Greg reached into the cart for his satchel. "S'fine," he said, unbuckling it. "M'here on official business."

"Yeah? What's your name?"

"Carius," said Greg.

Mycroft kept his face clean of surprise. _Why the...?_

"Funny," said the guard, raising an eyebrow. "I've not been told to expect no 'Carius'. And I get my orders direct from the jarl."

"I've been sent by a different jarl," Greg said, searching through his satchel. Mycroft kept his eyes down, trying to look as if this wasn't news to him. "Got a message from Siddgeir, over in Falkreath."

"Ha. That shit-stain. What's he want now? Has he run out of cushions for his pampered arse to sit on? Or does he want us to send fifty soldiers to run him a bath?"

"Probably," Greg admitted. He pulled from his satchel a capped scroll. "S'not why I'm here, though."

Mycroft's heart twitched strangely as he spotted Siddgeir's wax seal, glossy deep purple in the torchlight.

The guard stepped forward to take it, frowning. "What's he want, then?"

Greg kept hold of the scroll. "I'm supposed to tell the jarl directly."

"Well, if you don't tell me, you won't be telling the jarl a thing, will you? S'your choice, Imperial."

Greg audibly inhaled - then said, in a voice of tired calm,

"He's trying to track down his court wizard. Guy disappeared with five thousand septims of Siddgeir's money. They think he's headed here. I've been sent to warn you to watch for him."

_Oh._

_Oh - no._

 


	14. Fugitive

"Five thousand septims?" The guard snorted. "Siddgeir's underpants probably cost five thousand septims. And we've not seen any wizards here."

_No, it - it can't be -_

_Gods -_

_All this time -_

"You know they don't all wear pointy hats, don't you?" Greg said, audibly annoyed. He returned the scroll to his satchel. "Look... can you just let us by? We've been on the road for five days. It's not as if we've got a dragon hidden in the cart."

The guard cast Greg a frown. "Mnh. Fine. But we'll be keeping an eye on you." He moved over to the gate, and slid back the iron bars locking it into place. "Straight ahead to the inn. Bannered Mare. In the market. Can't miss it."

Mycroft couldn't breathe. He was numb to the bone. As the gates were pulled open, he was half-aware of Greg glancing across at him.

"Made it," Greg tried. He hesitated. "Got you here in one piece."

_It's you. It's you they sent._

_My rescuer._

_You're my pursuer._

Mycroft's mouth spoke for him; he barely heard the words.

"Yes, I... I'm very glad."

As they rolled their way into the city, Mycroft's mind and heart raced to outstrip each other. Hot and cold were pouring down his back. Panic was blistering across his scalp and inside his lungs.

_A cloak from Nenya. A borrowed horse. A fast one, so you would beat me here._

_Gods, they - they didn't realise you would delay yourself by helping me -_

"I didn't know you were working for the jarl," Mycroft said, as the horse made its weary way along the street. More guards, bearing torches, watched them pass. "I - would have tried to travel faster, if I'd..."

"Oh. No, it's fine... don't worry about it."

"Is that - why you're returning to - ?"

Greg glanced down at the reins. "Yeah."

There came an uneasy silence.

"Probably a wasted journey, to be honest," Greg said, filling the quiet.

Mycroft almost didn't dare to ask. "Oh?"

"Mhm. Any thief with the balls to steal that much gold won't have headed for the nearest city... he's probably across the border into Cyrodiil by now. Left Skyrim behind. Gone to live a good life."

 _If only._ "Yes, I... I see what you mean."

They were entering a market square. The stalls were empty for the night, the shutters closed on all the shops; the inn ahead was large and brightly-lit. Mycroft didn't understand how he'd once thought this sight would be welcoming.

"The jarl was angry, I imagine," he heard his own voice say.

Greg huffed. "Shouting the place down. Would've had every soldier in Falkreath on the hunt, if it weren't for the dragon. I needed work, so..."

"You offered to go."

Greg gave a shrug. "Easy coin. Ride to Whiterun, deliver a message, ride back... can't really go wrong."

 

*

 

For a few coins, a stable lad took the horse and cart away behind the inn. Mycroft watched the crates leave his sight with a distinct feeling of tightness across his chest. He'd hidden the leather bags of coins amongst heavy goat hides to muffle the sound; no-one should have any reason to search through them.

All the same, it wasn't easy to see them led away.

He was pale and weak-kneed as they stepped through the door of the inn, hoping his strangled panic would be taken for exhaustion. The Bannered Mare was a sizeable establishment, well-kept and well-populated with both locals and travellers. Drinkers surrounded the central fire, laughing, talking and singing drunkenly to some bawdy tune played by a bard. As they moved in silence towards the bar together, Mycroft glanced with nauseous disinterest at the bowls of thick stew the other patrons were eating, the mugs of brown ale in their hands. Last night, he'd have given anything to be stepping into this place.

Now all he wanted was to run.

_I should go. I should leave, now - take the cart -_

_Oh gods, the horse - not my horse -_

_Take a horse?_

_Any horse, just -_

_Julianos forgive me. When did I start thinking like this? When did I become so wretched?_

In the morning Greg would present that scroll to the jarl. Siddgeir would have included a name, a description - and if Mycroft wasn't many miles away from Whiterun by then, he would be taken captive at once. For all he knew, Gregori would come after him personally. _'Tricked into helping you, thief.'_

_Gods._

_What am I still doing here?_

The landlady was a red-headed Nord, somewhat tired in her smile.

"Evening," Greg said, and her gaze flickered slightly at his accent. "Looking to rent a couple of rooms for the night... need some food as well. Happy to pay in advance."

She shrugged. "Sorry," she said. "We've only one room left."

"You are _kidding,"_ Greg breathed. She turned her palms up to him.

"People from the farms have come into the city while there's a dragon on the loose. There's nothing I can do. You'll have to fight it out."

_Fight - ?_

Mycroft felt his stomach drop into his boots. He glanced across at Greg, his mouth opening.

Greg looked back at him; weariness dulled his gentle gaze. Before Mycroft could say a word, he reached for his belt and pulled open a leather pouch.

"Fine," he said. "Just the room." He clapped the coins down on the bar. "For him. For his food, too. Thanks."

He turned, and began to walk away through the crowd.

Mycroft's heart lurched.

"Gregori - "

Greg didn't turn back. He was moving through the crowd towards the door, his shoulders set.

"Gregori!"

Mycroft pushed after him, panicking.

By the time he reached the door, Greg was striding down the steps of the inn.

 _"Gregori!"_ he shouted. Greg was heading towards the stables. "Gregori -  _where are you going?"_

"Getting my bed roll." Greg didn't look around. His voice broke. "Go inside."

"Gregori - for the love of gods and men, _you deserve the - "_

 _"I don't want it!"_ Greg burst out - and as he turned, Mycroft felt the blood drain from his heart. Anger flashed across Greg's face. "You don't get it, do you? You don't get that _I can't do that to people._ You don't get that I'd rather sleep in a doorway than do that. You don't get that there's one person left in this world who cares if I'm alive or dead, and I won't let _Her_ see me do that."

His eyes blazed. They gleamed in the darkness, heavy with exhaustion and distress.

"I don't have anything," he said. His voice strained. "I don't have a damn thing anymore. This isn't even my bloody sword. But I've got honour, and I'm keeping it. Now go the fuck inside."

"You don't have to sleep outside, for pity's sake. Sleep in the room. It will be big enough for - "

"With you?" Greg said, disbelieving.

Pain twisted through Mycroft's chest. "Yes," he said, as his throat tightened. _"Yes,_ with me." He closed his hands into fists as they shook. "You told me we are friends. I will not let a friend sleep on the street."

"We are not friends," Greg said, pale.

Mycroft swallowed the poison; he deserved it. He let it hurt. He kept his head high, breathing in its sting. "Very well," he said. "Then you were kind to me even though I am a stranger. You were kind when you had no reason to be kind, and I am not prepared to - "

"I had _every_ reason," Greg breathed. His eyes filled with new darkness. "You know I did."

Mycroft forced himself to speak.

"And I have every reason now. Please. Come inside." He felt his eyes begin to burn. "By all eight gods, Gregori, if you make this the last moment I ever see you, after all we have been through - _that is not kind."_

Greg's gaze ached.

Mycroft watched him quietly break.

 

*

 

The room was up a flight of wooden stairs.

As they were shown into it by the landlady, Mycroft glanced at the sizeable double bed - woven green blankets beneath two plush reindeer furs, thick pillows stuffed with down, the frame carved with Nordic dragons.

"It's suitable," he said to her. "Thank you." He found himself using the voice of a court wizard - a voice he'd almost forgotten he had, one accustomed to receiving respect and fair service. "Would you please arrange for a bath and hot water to be brought?"

She hesitated. "I'll have to charge more."

"Of course." Mycroft reached for the coin purse at his belt. "How much?"

He watched her make a quick but shrewd calculation. "Six septims," she said.

It was a little shameless of her, but Mycroft decided it was worth paying. She might hope to wheedle yet more out of him, and was therefore likely to arrange the bath more quickly.

He handed over the coins, adding four more.

"For your pains," he added, meeting her eyes.

She understood him perfectly.

"Thank you, sir." Indicating the double doors beside the bed, she added, "You have a balcony, if you wish. A nice place to sit and eat. Let me know if there's anything else you need."

She left, closing the door behind her.

Mycroft turned to the man who had accompanied him into the room like a ghost.

"The bed is large," he said, "and therefore we will share it."

Greg said nothing, his eyes hollow and guarded. He didn't protest.

Mycroft decided it would do for now.

"We both need to eat," he said. "We are very tired, and very weak... I believe a meal and a mug of ale will do us untold good. Would you like to eat together downstairs by the fire, or eat together in here?"

Greg visibly noted the unconditional clause in both options. His eyes shuttered, and he said,

"Here. Quieter."

"I agree. Will you kindly bring two bowls of stew for us? I imagine the landlady will give you bread, if you ask her."

Greg seemed relieved to have a task - and a reason to leave the room. He nodded numbly, slid his heavy satchel from his shoulder and dropped it on the bed, then headed for the door.

As Mycroft heard him reach the stairs, he moved.

Greg's satchel was no longer so tightly packed. Their journey had emptied it of food. It meant there was little to search through, and Mycroft managed to retrieve the scroll in seconds. He quickly redid the buckle, left the satchel just as it had been, and turned his attention to the message.

He wrenched off the caps, his heart hammering. He broke the wax seal and unravelled it.

Siddgeir's hand - Siddgeir's words.

Siddgeir's description of him.

_'A Breton mage by the name of Mycroft, reddened and thinning hair, dull grey eyes, tall and somewhat gaunt. Ugly and ageing in his features. Nose is noticeably long and mouth is thin, with brows that give no shape to - '_

Swallowing back a mouthful of bile, Mycroft opened his own pack. He found the pouch of tundra cotton and red mountain flowers, tipped the bronze caps into it and stuffed the scroll inside, wrenching the strings shut, burying it back at the bottom of his bag.

He would dispose of it somehow. Fire - water - drop it in the sewer. It didn't matter, so long as it was destroyed. The jarl of Whiterun would never know. Even if Gregori left early, and went straight to the great keep, he wouldn't know. Siddgeir would send other letters, other messengers, but Mycroft would be gone by then.

_I will not be prey._

His face contorted as he thought it, hands shaking. _I will not be prey._

Footsteps were creaking their way back upstairs.

Mycroft breathed back his anger, forcing himself to settle. He had a calm expression ready as Gregori came through the door. Greg had two bowls of stew, and two thick slices of good bread; two serving girls behind him carried a tin bath.

"Thank you," Mycroft said, as Greg quietly handed him the fuller bowl, the thicker slice. He didn't argue. "Perhaps we should eat on the balcony."

Greg nodded wordlessly, his eyes still low.

Leaving the servants to set up the bath, Mycroft opened the balcony doors.

Two chairs sat either side of a small table. They were positioned to overlook the bar below, the central fire and the other patrons. The genial noise of the prosperous tavern drifted up to them on the smoke; it was comforting somehow to look down upon it all.

Mycroft took a seat, holding the bowl of stew upon his lap.

Without a sound, Greg sat beside him and did the same.

It was a little hard to force food down. The distress of the scroll, and of their argument outside, had left Mycroft's throat rather tight. His stomach wasn't used to hot food. He made himself eat slowly, hazing half-in and half-out of his thoughts, listening to the bard below and the sound of hot water being carried into the room behind them.

Greg seemed to be feeling the same unfamiliarity with food. He looked as if he wasn't quite tasting it, wasn't aware of its texture in his mouth.

The silence was painful.

"Sir?" The serving girl in the door addressed Mycroft, her voice polite. "The bath's ready for you. Can we bring you anything else?"

Mycroft glanced across at Greg's bowl, finding it empty.

He handed both bowls to the young woman with care.

"Thank you. Would you be good enough to fetch us two bottles of mead, please? We won't need anything else after that."

She bobbed, and dutifully disappeared.

When they stepped back into the room, two open bottles of mead were waiting on a low table beside the bath. Steam rose invitingly from the water; fresh linen was folded over a nearby chair.

Mycroft turned to Greg.

As the quiet brown eyes met his own at last, he felt his heart grip.

"Would you like to bathe first or second?" he asked.

He could have guessed the answer.

"Second," Greg said. He hesitated; words left him in a sudden rush. "I'm really sorry - I didn't mean to say... _fuck,_ I just - "

Mycroft inhaled. "It's alright."

"It really isn't," Greg said, as he shook. He stared at Mycroft, his eyes rounding. "It's not alright at all. I'm sorry how I've been. I mean it."

"You've not - _'been'_ anything."

"I've been a bloody menace."

Mycroft gripped his hands shut, feeling nausea rise in his throat. "I _never_ meant to give you the impression that you're... Greg, I... I realise that I've - "

"L-Look, I - I grew up weird, okay? - a-and things aren't normal in the army. You forget how to give people space. I didn't mean to - "

"Please stop. You're accusing yourself of things you haven't done. This isn't - _you_ are not responsible for - "

" - just - e-easy to tell you stuff, and I - I got a bit - but I'm sorry - "

" - no need to apologise for something that hasn't insulted me in any way - "

" - and I d-didn't mean to - to talk to you like that - I'm just - "

" - some sort of 'menace', when nothing could be further from the - "

" - h-honestly, I - yeah, I - I like you - and I'm sorry if that's - I'm sorry - "

_Gods._

"Greg," Mycroft said, feeling his heart heave. "Greg, I - I like you _very much._ You mustn't... _apologise_ for..."

Greg's mouth opened. He searched Mycroft's face, paling. "You do?"

_Divines help me. You sweet man. How is that so astonishing to you?_

"Y-Yes," Mycroft breathed in a rush. "Yes, of course I do."

Greg hesitated. Fear flickered across his gaze. "I - I don't think you - ... I mean _I like you,_ Mycroft."

Mycroft steeled his courage. _"I like you,_ too."

For the second time in an hour, Greg fell apart before his eyes.

"Then - then why - why won't you...?"  _Come with me._

"I..." Mycroft's pulse lurched.  _Gods. It is now or never. I have to speak. I have to._ "Greg, I... _want_ to go with you. I can't tell you how desperately I want to. More than I can say."

Greg couldn't seem to look away from him, pale and flushed at once. "So why won't you?"

Mycroft wanted to take his hands. He wanted to touch while this was said - he didn't know why it seemed like it would help. Keeping his hands to himself was hell, his heart now battering at his ribs like shutters in a windstorm.

"I'm keenly aware there's been dishonesty between us," he said.

Greg didn't move. "What about?"

"When we met, I - I had good reason to... and I didn't realise that I would grow to like you so very much, and regret my dishonesty so deeply. You came upon me in the most desperate situation of my life, Greg. I was intensely afraid and I reacted poorly."

"What the hell are you telling me?" Greg said.

 

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak; no sound came out. He couldn't.

In the silence, his ear caught hold of something.

The music downstairs had stopped, mid-chorus. The singing was drying up with it. As Mycroft glanced through the open doors of the balcony, he realised why. Soldiers had entered the inn, a sizeable group of them in Imperial leather armour. Chatter died as the patrons turned to look.

Mycroft realised.

His hands closed in the front of Greg's tunic.

"I am the Falkreath court wizard," he gasped. Greg's eyes blew wide. Mycroft held on. "I - I-I am sorry - but please give me one hour - one hour to explain - "

In the bar below, the legionary's voice called clear across the sudden quiet.

"We're looking for a fugitive from justice," the man said, and Greg's face opened with alarm. He shifted to look through the open doors, taking in the soldiers and the legionary now speaking. "He left Falkreath several days ago and we have reason to believe he's now travelled to Whiterun. The man in question is highly dangerous. There's a significant reward offered to any man or woman who - "

_A reward._

_Gods help me. Siddgeir has offered a reward._

"Greg, please - i-it isn't what you think." Mycroft couldn't breathe. He tightened his fists in Greg's tunic, heat blazing across his eyes. "Please help me - please don't - "

"The man's name is Gregori," the legionary called. Mycroft's heart stuttered to a stop. "He's an Imperial army deserter, who might also be travelling under the name of 'Carius'... and he's wanted in Cyrodiil for murder."

 


	15. Miracle

Hadvar's voice carried every word up to the room.

Greg closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he saw two things happen at once. Down in the bar, the landlady was making her way towards Hadvar at speed, already pointing up towards their room.

At the same time, Mycroft turned white-pale towards him.

Greg looked him in the eye.

He could feel his heart taking light as he spoke, breaking open as guilt burned through him.

"Please give me one hour," he said, as Mycroft stared at him open-mouthed. "One hour to explain."

He watched Mycroft swallow, searching his face. Greg's heart heaved.

"It isn't what you think," he said.

The landlady was leading Hadvar and the soldiers across the tavern. People were parting to let them through. They were coming.

"Please help me," Greg said. "Please don't - "

He watched the decision form in Mycroft's face. He saw those beautiful grey-blue eyes harden, as resolve set his jaw.

Armoured footsteps came striding up the stairs. Mycroft grabbed hold of Greg's arm.

"Get behind me," he said. "Pick up that chair - the window is our only viable escape route - "

"The window - "

 _"Get behind me."_ Mycroft kept hold of his arm. "I might faint. By the gods, if you leave me - "

"I won't. I won't leave you."

"Good." Mycroft readied both his hands, breathing in. The soldiers were reaching the top of the stairs. "Smash the window as soon as the spell hits. _Do not leave me."_

"What - what are you going to - "

Mycroft twisted both his hands, dragging hot red light out of the air. It spread in wild flashing tendrils around his fists, coiling and flickering in a frenzy as he held the spell. Greg could feel him shaking. Energy poured from him, rippling like heat from the furnish.

As the doors opened, and the soldiers appeared, one of them took an immediate step backwards.

"Sir - he's - "

Hadvar shoved the man aside, stepping through. At the sight of Mycroft crackling with red energy, he stopped dead.

"Let us go," Greg warned over Mycroft's shoulder. He tightened his grip on the chair. "Let us walk out of here, Hadvar, or innocents will get hurt. There's civilians downstairs."

Hadvar stared into his eyes.

"Tell the mage to stand down," he ordered.

Greg inhaled. "He'll stand down when you let us go."

Hadvar gave a short, unpleasant laugh. "You're not going anywhere. 'Ex-Legion'? You're a damn murderer and you'll answer for your crimes."

His gaze flickered to Mycroft.

"Cast that spell," he warned, "and I'll execute him in the square myself."

The red light around Mycroft flared with fury, crackling and sparking. Greg felt the energy around him tighten; he could hear his own heart pounding in his ears.

"It was an accident, Hadvar." He knew it wouldn't do any good. "Her family own half the ships in Anvil. Nobody would've listened to me."

"All this time to think, and that's the best you've come up with?" Hadvar reached for his sword. "Let's see you fight all of us," he snarled as he drew it.

Mycroft lunged, releasing the spell.

Two bolts of red light twisted straight towards Hadvar. They struck him in the chest one after the other, illuminating him in a flare of scarlet. As his men veered backwards, panicking, Hadvar turned towards them.

He swung wildly at the nearest, slashing through the man's armour in a sudden fit of rage. His face contorted in fury. Before the soldier could even cry out, Hadvar lurched again and sank his sword between the man's ribs.

The others howled in panic, scrambling for weapons.

_Fuck - shit, we need to -_

Greg seized the chair. He slammed it into the window with all his might. It broke, showering glass into the night air; screams went up from downstairs. Greg grabbed the chair again and kept smashing, as the soldiers tried to fight off their commander. Hadvar had already cut down a second and a third. His face was warped in a frenzy; he wanted them dead. They were panicking, trying to drive him back but not kill him, and he was striking through them one-by-one.

Throwing the chair into the chaos, Greg grabbed for his sword belt on the bed. It was the only thing he could reach in time. He threw it over his head, then dipped to the floor, dragging his arms around the figure collapsed in a heap.

Mycroft lolled in his arms, as loose as a child's doll.

Greg hauled him up, panting.

"Hold me - " he gasped. "Hold onto me - "

Mycroft was barely conscious. His hands closed in the back of Greg's tunic; he clung on. Slinging his weight over one shoulder Greg strode towards the window, kicked through a final shard of glass to widen their passage, and leant out over the ledge.

Hay bales.

There were hay bales, below - the stables - hay for horses, stacked high.

It would have to do.

_Mara, if he's mine, let us live._

_Let us live and I'll make him happy. I promise. I swear._

As Greg climbed out through the window, his heart hammering in his throat, he felt Mycroft's fists tighten in the back of his tunic.

"Got you," he said, locking one arm around Mycroft's torso. "Got you. I've got you. I promise."

The soldiers were still fighting off their commander in a panic. People were screaming below in the inn. Greg didn't know how long this distraction would last, but their precious seconds were flashing by already. If they didn't go now, they wouldn't leave Whiterun alive.

"Gonna drop down, okay? Just let yourself drop, nice and easy - don't twist - "

The oak beam outside their window was only shallow. Greg edged out as far as he could go, then wrapped his free arm around the window frame in order to lower Mycroft.

"Okay?" he said, as Mycroft began to slide in his arms. "Easy. That's it."

His shoulders began to shake. He couldn't hold Mycroft's weight.

"Straight down," he said, and let Mycroft slip from his grasp.

The exhaustion helped. Mycroft fell clean and easy, down onto the hay bales with a flump, and rolled sideways onto the ground. Greg gritted his teeth and pushed off from the ledge. As he dropped he braced himself, ready to roll. The fall wasn't even enough to breathe in. The second he hit the hay bales he twisted, rolling clear away.

He dragged Mycroft up from the ground, panting in pain. He could hear people fleeing out of the front of the inn. They were screaming for the guards at the distant gates.

_Shit - shit -_

_We have to go - we have to go now -_

Mycroft was too weak to stand. He had to be carried. Greg dragged him back over his shoulder and hurried around to the back of the inn, staggering under Mycroft's weight and trying to duck beneath every window.

The stable was easy to find. Six or seven horses were tethered inside it, eating together from a large central trough. As Greg staggered in, holding onto Mycroft, a stable boy leapt up from his stool.

"Sit," Greg said, and drew his sword with a flash. "Sit yourself down."

The boy went white. He dropped back onto the stool without a sound, staring at the tip of the orcish blade.

Heart pounding, Greg slashed through the string of Mycroft's leather purse. It slipped from his belt and hit the hay with a thump.

He kicked it across to the boy.

"You didn't see us," he said, and cut through the rope tethering his horse in place. "Right? You saw nothing. You take that money home to your mum. Tell her you got it for saving two innocent men."

The boy scrambled to pick up the pouch, nodding without a word as he clasped it to his chest.

"Good. Good lad." Panting, Greg heaved Mycroft up onto the horse, laying him across the saddle like a bloody sack. "You see the cart over there - wooden crates?"

The boy looked round, wide-eyed. He gave a mute nod.

"Take what you want from it," Greg said. "Before they search it. You'll have to be quick." He dragged a stool across to the horse's side, took a few steps back and mounted it in a leap, swinging himself into the saddle with a grunt. The horse snorted; it steadied itself under the new weight.

Greg reached down, pulling Mycroft to sit up in front of him. He'd passed out. He was gone. He slumped bonelessly against Greg as he was pulled upright, his head sloping loose onto one shoulder.

Greg wrapped an arm around his chest to hold him safe. He seized the reins with the other hand.

"One more miracle," he begged under his breath, as he turned the horse out of the stable. He kicked against its sides, and it broke into a run. "One more fucking miracle. Please. For him."

As they galloped at speed across the market square, shouts seemed to follow them - gasps on the wind. Greg didn't turn to look. His eyes were fixed on the gates.

They were open. Guards were being ordered in from the walls to deal with the disturbance. He could see their torches through the darkness.

_Fuck - fuck, please -_

Holding Mycroft against his chest, he drove the horse faster with his heels. Its hooves drummed over the stone flags in a fury. They raced between the timber buildings of Whiterun like wolves were in pursuit, faster, harder, bolting towards the gates.

Their approach had been noticed. There were shouts.

Guards were scrambling to close them.

_Oh fuck, please - please no -_

Greg tightened his fist around the reins.

_Faster, faster - fuck -_

_Die trying - die trying, just try -_

_One more miracle -_

The gates were starting to close. He could see the gap between them narrowing. Men were shouting. His heart was flying.

_If we hit them at this speed -_

The horse veered, sped up and raced towards the gap. A hollering guard tried to get himself in the way. Greg saw the man lunge for the reins; the horse ran him down without a jolt. His screams dragged the attention of the others, and the split second's cut in focus was enough.

As they blew through the gap in the gates, Greg felt his heart take flame. They cantered over the cobbles, following the path between the towers. There were shouts, and the blast of a horn, then the zip of an arrow over Greg's right shoulder. Swearing he drove the horse faster.

A few more came close - he felt one stick into the saddle just behind him. The horse didn't stop.

They flew out beneath the gate, and raced away across the plains.

Only the stars watched their passage.

 

*

 

When Mycroft awoke, he was lying in wild grass.

The night sky overhead was a deep and soothing black. He gazed into it for a while, his thoughts foggy, as he wondered why his body ached so much. He wasn't sure how he'd come to be outside.

He felt quite safe - safer than he had in some time.

He breathed the feeling in, and let his eyes close. The wild grass stirred around him on the night breeze. Sleep returned, whispering through his senses. His thoughts lulled back into quiet.

When he woke again, he found a pair of brown eyes looking down into his own.

In a silent rush, it all returned.

The force of it took Mycroft's breath. He stared up at Greg in silence, overwhelmed, feeling his heart pound against his ribs.

_Murder._

It couldn't be true.

Greg held his gaze, his eyes soft with regret.

"What did Siddgeir do to you?" he said.

Mycroft breathed in.

The words wouldn't come.

"Nenya tried to pay me," Greg said. "She begged me to get rid of his message... take the horse and go off to Solitude. Never come back. She pleaded with me."

Mycroft felt his heart crack.

"S-She is my oldest friend," he said. Guilt shut his eyes. "I left her with him."

"What did he do?"

"He made my life a misery." Mycroft kept his eyes closed, trying to quieten the distress. "When he first became jarl, he didn't see a need to have a wizard. He made that clear to me. I refused to be disheartened by his mockery... attempted to discharge my duties to the hold with grace."

He hesitated, opened his eyes into Greg's gazed.

"Eventually, he - found he could unsettle me by making crude comments. Personal remarks. Highly personal. I think at first his advances were rather a joke to him, but - in time, he - seemed to decide that my continued indifference and dignity in the face of his bullying posed some delightful challenge. He started becoming more - forceful. I ended up having to lock my door at night. He would try to get in, tell me to open it. Tell me he had some urgent 'magical issue' to discuss with me."

Mycroft bit the side of his tongue. Revulsion crawled beneath his skin as he remembered.

"One night, I was foolishenough to admit him. I thought I should try speaking to him clearly, not as servant to master but as an older man to a younger one, and explain to him that his attentions were unwelcome and I wished him to stop. He didn't listen to me. At all. Smirked as I stammered through my explanation, then told me I'd clearly let him in for a reason... even if I was still determined to 'play games' with him. He attempted to... 's-seduce' hardly seems the word, but - in the end, a guard came to investigate the commotion. Siddgeir, with reluctance, slunk away. Told me rather calmly as he left that he'd come to 'speak with me' at another time."

"Utter fucking bastard," Greg breathed. Mycroft felt his heart tighten. He didn't know when he'd shut his eyes again. He opened them, and found Greg watching him with a look of desperate distress.

He swallowed.

"Siddgeir wouldn't have let me leave by my own will. He had the greatest opposition to my own will. My only option was to escape."

Greg stayed silent; his eyes were heavy.

Mycroft realised what he wanted to ask. 

He took a deep breath, and spoke as calmly as he could.

"If given the chance, I would have served Dengeir loyally all my life - lived and died in his service - never taking a partner, never leaving his household. When I was too old to perform my duties, he would have been expected to provide me with a home and servants to look after me in my final years. I gave  _decades_ of my life to Falkreath hold... to its welfare... a-and suddenly, by the whims of one vicious little boy, I lost - I lost..."

"I'm sorry," Greg whispered, and Mycroft covered his face. He couldn't bear it.

"I-I am a thief. A bloody thief. I'm sorry."

"Don't. Don't be sorry. Don't be sorry to anyone. Fuck, he tried to force himself on you, drove you out of your home - "

"I thought - thought I could - s-some quiet place. Some distant town."

"Gods." Greg had realised. "Those crates weren't full of books, were they?"

Pain ached through Mycroft's heart. He felt his expression crease, overwhelmed by the realisation.

"S-Siddgeir will have destroyed my books - everything - my journals - all my journals since I was a boy."

Tears burned across his eyes. He forced them back, shaking, not daring to breathe in case he sobbed.

"I only wanted to escape," he said, and heard his voice break. "To be safe. I could never earn enough to buy a home. I am old. Skyrim does not need mages. It needs warriors. Mages are - feared, sneered at - driven out - one per town is seen as too many - "

"Stop." Greg was lying down beside him in the grass, coming close to him. "Stop right now - "

As arms reached out towards him, Mycroft fell apart.

He buried himself in Greg's chest, and shook in utter silence as Greg held him. Fingers carded through his hair, stroking him over and over, hushing him like a fretful child. Greg held him as if he didn't ever intend to let go.

_A fugitive. A deserter._

_Wanted for murder._

Mycroft pushed as close as the boundaries of their skin would allow him. He turned his face into Greg's neck, clinging to him. As he felt tears roll quietly into his hair, he shook and sobbed and gasped Greg's name.

Greg's voice cracked.

"I - didn't mean to kill him."

Mycroft's heart lurched. He held on tighter and felt Greg convulse in his arms.

"Please," Greg gasped. "Please don't be scared of me. I went to talk to him. I only went to tell him it's alright. Tell him I didn't believe what they were saying."

Mycroft's throat gripped. He could barely form the word. "W-Who...?"

Greg swallowed.

"Blacksmith," he whispered. He was silent for some time, his hands shaking on Mycroft's back. "I got home from campaign. S-Summer. Everyone was looking at me funny, and - and then I got a note - handed to me by some stranger in the marketplace. Saying my wife had been carrying on with the blacksmith for months, didn't hide it, and he wasn't the first. It was the talk of the town."

He shuddered, his breath hitching.

Mycroft began to stroke his hair. "Shhh..." He held Greg ever tighter, brushing his fingers over the back of his neck. "Tell me. Tell me all of it."

"I asked her about it. Showed her the note." Greg nuzzled into his neck, shaking still. "She told me it was lies. Gossip. Someone who hated her family, making things up. I believed her. Why would she break her vows? Kept mine - kept mine, all that time - even when no kids came along - didn't think it would ever cross her mind to - "

He took a sharp breath, exhaling it as Mycroft rubbed the back of his neck.

"Next day, I... thought I'd go warn the blacksmith." His voice tightened. "Warn him someone was playing funny games, spreading rumours. Tell him it was fine. Tell him I didn't believe a word and it was alright."

Mycroft's heart clenched. Somehow, he already knew. "She was - "

"Y-Yeah. She was there. I got no answer knocking at the front, thought he'd be in his workshop at the back. Went round. Heard - _noises_ coming from the forge room. I walked around the back, through the door, and he had her... well."

Mycroft's heart strained. "I'm so sorry."

Greg swallowed, his voice thick.

"When she realised I was there, she hit him on the shoulder to stop. He turned round, and... before I could move, he'd grabbed for a battleaxe. Massive thing on the wall. Wrenched it down and run towards me, raging. I wasn't armed. Still couldn't believe what I was seeing. He swung it for me and I - I just - "

Mycroft realised.

He buried his fingers in Greg's hair, gathering him close as he shook.

"You saved your life," he breathed. "You acted in self-defence."

"Fuck - fuck, he - he just - I didn't _mean_ to - "

"You did what you had to. If he'd taken up a weapon and he meant to hurt you, you did the only thing you could."

Greg's fists clenched in the back of Mycroft's tunic. "You didn't see him burn," he whimpered. "You didn't see him. He just went up. I didn't - I-I didn't think he'd - I just wanted to drive him back."

"Shhh..." _Gods, you poor man. One moment of panic._ "Shhh, Greg... if you hadn't, you would have lost your life. You would never have seen another day."

"I didn't mean for him to die."

"I know. I know you didn't."

"Sh-she was screaming - just screaming, screaming I'd killed him - "

"It was an accident. You acted in self-defence."

"But I - I knew her family would back her up - I knew she'd s-say I - "

Mycroft felt his heart cave, imagining the distress Greg must have felt in that moment. "And you made your escape," he whispered.

Greg shook to his bones. "C-Coward. Should have stayed. Explained."

"You'd have lost your head."

"Nearly did. F-Fucking Helgen. I got caught by an Imperial legion, trying to cross the border into Skyrim. Turns out they were waiting for Stormcloaks doing the same. They thought I was a Stormcloak scout. Couldn't tell them no, I'm just a murderer and an army deserter - "

"You are _not a murderer,"_ Mycroft said, fiercely. He pulled back to take Greg's jaw into his hands. "Look at me. Look at me this instant."

Tear-stricken, Greg nervously gave him his eyes.

"You meant that man no harm," Mycroft said, staring into them, willing the pain and the guilt he could see there to listen to him. "You were unarmed, for Stendarr's sake. He meant to end your life. You defended yourself by the only means that you had."

Greg's eyes ached. They filled with bright new tears.

"I burned him alive," he breathed.

Mycroft's heart burned too.

"Good," he said, and watched Greg's expression crack with distress. "Only one of you was fated to leave that forge, Greg. Better you, _a good man,_ than the sort of vicious brute who steals another person's wife, lives openly as her lover, then immediately opts for the murder of her innocent husband when they are discovered."

He kept hold of Greg's face, watching the tears roll silently down his cheeks.

"I will teach you," Mycroft whispered. Greg's expression creased. "I will teach you to focus the flow and control it. You are half-Breton. You will learn like a dream."

"F-Fuck." Greg pushed close to him again, nestling into his neck. His arms dragged around Mycroft as hard and tight as he'd ever been held. "Stay. Please stay."

"For what possible reason would I go?"

"Don't go. Please don't go."

"I will not." Mycroft shook with the ferocity of it, gasping. "Never leave me. I will never leave you. We will - w-we will find our way - "

"Together," Greg whimpered. "Fuck. Stay together."

"Together." Mycroft breathed it against his jaw, closing his eyes as emotion overwhelmed his every sense. "Long roads are easier with someone else."

"I-I'll look after you. I promise. I'll keep us safe."

"I will keep you safe, too. I will never lie to you again. I'm so sorry, I - I've _hated_ myself, Greg - hated myself everyday that I've lied to you - "

"Gods almighty." Greg shook against him, nuzzling at his cheek. "Don't say sorry. I lied, too. We thought we had to."

Mycroft's heart contracted. "We don't," he whispered. "Not any more."

"No... no, we don't. We don't have to now." Greg exhaled in a rush; Mycroft felt his breath sweep across his neck, raising all the hairs at once. "I... I'm sweet for you, you know that? I'm really... _really..._ oh, shit - the first moment I saw you, I..."

_Gods - oh gods, don't let me pass out -_

"I'm intensely fond of you, too. Desperately. Greg, I... I don't know how to tell you how much I... y-you are wonderful..."

"S-Shit." Greg's arms tightened, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry about the gold - I'm sorry - your cart, your satchel - your journal - "

Mycroft swallowed. He tried to mourn them; he tried to feel anything for their loss, anything but relief.

"You saved my life." He wove his fingers through Greg's hair, closing his eyes as the breeze stirred through the wild grass around them. "You could have left me."

Greg's lips brushed the side of his neck. He felt his heart spin away into the night.

"Couldn't," Greg whispered against the kiss. His chest expanded in Mycroft's arms. "Couldn't've left you. Not when you needed me."

"G-Greg..." Mycroft's throat gripped. "Greg, I... I think I..."

He felt Greg's hand curve around the back of his head. His touch was as soft as the grass, as protective as a loving god.

As Greg lifted his head, Mycroft's heart beat what felt like its last.

"I love you too," Greg whispered and leant close.

Their lips brushed - the stroke of a feather, shy. Mycroft felt the world and everything in it reel. It was blown away next moment, lost in the gentle rush of Greg's breath as he exhaled. He shook, and pressed his lips to Mycroft's again - longer this time, warmer, a kiss that felt desperately certain to be a kiss - and in the relief of it, shaking, Mycroft ran his fingers along the stubble of Greg's jaw. It felt like the strike of a match over touchpaper. Greg shuddered, his fingers curling, and sealed his mouth to Mycroft's. Mycroft pushed closer, whimpering.

As Greg rolled onto his back in the grass, Mycroft followed him - holding his jaw, kissing him, feeling his soul erupt into life like a sudden spring. Greg's arms wrapped around his back; hands buried in his tunic. He could feel Greg's heart beating between them. As they kissed, and joy gasped through Mycroft's soul, he knew beyond doubt that no moment in his life had ever felt this happy - he'd never felt so perfectly and desperately free.

Greg was shaking; it only made Mycroft love him more.

Trembling, he cupped his lover's jaw.

_L-Lady Mara, I... I will look after him. Your servant. I promise._

_Show me how to care for him. Let me be your reward to him._

_Let me love him._

_I am so ready to be in love._

 

*

 

As Mycroft settled in the saddle, Greg's arm curled around his waist from behind. He felt his heart swell with happiness.

"Take us at least the night to get to Riverwood..." Greg kissed the side of his neck, where the fabric of his tunic had curled. Mycroft shivered at the sensation. "I reckon I've got enough to buy us a night or two at the inn... then we'll need to find money from somewhere."

Mycroft wrapped his arm over Greg's, his pulse quickening at the series of gentle kisses. "We shall think of something."

With a gentle jolt the horse set off, Greg's free hand wrapped loosely in the reins.

"We're starting from scratch, you know that?" Greg murmured against his neck. "A sword, a horse and a single purse of gold."

Mycroft bit into his lip. "I think you'll find I have quite everything in the world in this moment."

He felt Greg grin against his neck; his heart ached at the sensation.

"Need to figure out false names," Greg said. "Cover stories. Can you do that? You're the one with the brains."

"You," Mycroft said, "are a highly intelligent and capable man. As I am more naturally inclined towards illusory practice, and more familiar with the culture of Skyrim, I will invent plausible identities for us."

"'kay." Greg's hand splayed across his stomach, stroking. The protective hold was breathlessly enjoyable. "You've got until we get to Riverwood. Keep you busy while we ride."

"Mhm. We might have to pick up some speed, if you intend for us to be there in the morning."

Greg nuzzled into his neck, keeping the horse at its steady and gentle place. "'Illusory practice'?" he said, with interest. "S'that what you used on Hadvar?"

Mycroft huffed. "'Hadvar'? A friend of yours?"

"Met him in Helgen. He was trying to execute me."

"Mm," Mycroft hummed. "An ugly habit of his. And yes, it was. The magical school of illusion governs the perception of the world. The spell will have worn off in a minute or two. For your reference, I am also skilled in alteration and destruction magic."

"Can you summon things? Atronachs and so on?"

"Ha. A few minor things."

"You're amazing," Greg said, grinning again, and bit fondly at Mycroft's neck. Mycroft dug his teeth into his lower lip. "You're a big deal, aren't you? 'Bright lights and popping noises'. Fuck me up. What happened with the mudcrab?"

Mycroft groaned, closing his eyes.

"The wretched creature was too fast for me," he said. "It had me in its claws before I had time to draw breath... and I - rather suffer in my abilities, when I'm weak and in distress." Mycroft felt his forehead crease. "And naked in a freezing river."

Greg smiled against his neck. "The wolves?"

"Mmh?"

"You killed them, didn't you?"

"I did wonder when you'd query what had happened."

"Thought your horse must've... I don't know - then they just... limped along the road a bit and died. You turned them on each other, didn't you? Like with Hadvar and his men."

Mycroft leant back into Greg's arms. "Sadly they'd already crippled my horse by the time I could reach them. I believe the rest you know."

As Greg tightened the hug, a wave of comfort lapped through Mycroft's body. It left him smiling ear-to-ear. He tilted his face up towards the stars, enjoying the cool clarity of their light upon his skin.

"At my peak," he said, "with a few enchantments and supporting equipment, I fare rather better at looking after myself. My magic certainly lasts longer."

"Looking forward to seeing you in full flow... bet it's a sight." Greg began to kiss slowly up the column of Mycroft's throat, nose nuzzling against his beard. Mycroft's eyes closed in bliss. "Did you come to Skyrim to study?" he murmured. "Up at the college?"

It felt impossibly good to be honest. Only Greg's kisses felt better.

"In Winterhold. I passed through Markarth on my way."

"That the only time you've been?"

"Mm."

"So - so that's why you - ?"

" - couldn't agree to travel with you... lest I find myself suddenly explaining why I haven't the slightest clue about the city in which I supposedly live, including the location of my house."

Greg chuckled, stroking a gentle circle upon his stomach. "Should've told me," he said. "I got to thinking you were sick of me. Desperate to get away from me."

"You should have confided in me, too - though I understand why you didn't. I hope you understand my fears."

"Mhm. Completely."

"I still cannot fathom why any woman would treat you so callously... or, for that matter, let you disappear off into the army. I would have wanted you very much close at hand for the last twenty years."

Greg grinned, nosing fondly just below his ear. "Sweet about me."

"Only just started, I'm afraid. I suggest you get used to it."

"Gods," Greg rumbled, and the gentle dig of his teeth into Mycroft's neck had him once more biting at his lip, desperately fighting the need to arch. "How m'I meant to get us to Riverwood like this? Just want to kiss you... can't keep my hands off you..."

"The thought of the bed we still haven't reached?" Mycroft suggested, grinning up at the night sky. "The bath which you promised me days ago?"

"Mhm. Fair enough. D'you think I can concentrate, if I try really hard?"

"Entirely certain it's in your capacity," Mycroft said, as he reached for the reins, removing them from Greg's hands. "However, as word of our daring escape will travel quickly from Whiterun, I suggest we commit ourselves to outrunning it. Give me these."

Greg grinned against his neck, relinquishing the reins with playful reluctance. "You know how to drive this thing, do you?"

"My father owned entire streets in Daggerfall," Mycroft said, wrapping the reins about his wrists. "Of course I know how to ride a horse. Arms around my waist, please. I intend to be asleep in Riverwood by the next sunset."

"You sure they'll think we've headed the other way?"

"Hardly sure, but it's counter-intuitive for us to travel back towards Falkreath like this. If they have any sense they'll be watching the road to Windhelm."

"Works for me, Markarth. Let's go."

 


	16. Bed

Shortly before noon, on the 27th of Last Seed, a weary bookseller entered The Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood.

He explained that he'd been beset by bandits on the road from Whiterun. They'd taken his cart and almost everything he owned. He'd now walked the last two days alone, without food or proper shelter.

He was deeply grateful for the innkeeper's concern. In many ways, he said, he was thankful to the gods that the thieves hadn't just cut his throat. All he needed now was a bowl of stew and some uninterrupted rest. She showed him to the largest room, in the quietest part of the inn, and on her concerned inquiry for the state of his torn and muddied clothing, he confessed that a bath might be welcome. As she carried hot water to the room for him, he thanked her profusely for her pains - he was distressed to have caused her such inconvenience.

She simply smiled, wished him a good rest, and promised she'd make sure he wasn't disturbed.

Later that afternoon, a courier passing through the village on his way to Helgen came asking about a room for the night. The man admitted he'd only just heard about the dragon attack - it looked as if the letter he was carrying wouldn't ever reach its recipient. He'd ridden all the way from Windhelm to deliver it. Now he'd have to ride back with it unopened, and unpaid for.

The innkeeper showed him to the cheapest room they had, and showed him the small stable where his horse could shelter.

He thanked her, gratefully accepted the offer of bread and cheese, and ate it alone by the fire.

When she returned from the cellar with a fresh barrel of mead, he'd gone - off to his room, she assumed, or out into the village. He'd paid in advance, so it didn't matter.

When people paid in advance, they could do what they liked.

 

*

 

"The water has turned rather cold, I'm afraid."

"Warmer than the last bath I had," Greg said with a grin, as he pulled his tunic over his head. He dropped it beside the bathtub, then began to undo the ties of his breeches. "Reckon they've bought the story okay?"

Sitting on the end of the double bed, Mycroft discreetly lowered his gaze. The small smile was rather interesting, Greg thought.

"Mm," Mycroft murmured. "I'm certain we'll be left alone."

"You're right about Skyrim. People don't question couriers much, do they?"

"There's no-one more invisible than a servant." Mycroft began to examine his cuticles. "It might be worth our while to be seen talking in the bar tonight... striking up a friendship. We can then leave together."

Greg supposed it wouldn't be a hardship.

"Covers us if I'm seen leaving your room," he added, slid his breeches down over his hips, and stepped into the tepid water. He didn't check to see if Mycroft looked or not. "Mind if I get a few hours' sleep first?"

"No, not at all. The rest has certainly helped me."

"You look better," Greg said, settling back in the tub. He caught the fond flash of Mycroft's eyes and smiled in return. "Wish I'd been here for your hot bath. Bit of a miracle, was it?"

Mycroft pulled his lower lip between his teeth. "Almost revelatory."

"How're your wounds looking?"

"All in all, rather well... if we can source a cheap healing draught, or the ingredients I'd need to make one, the better."

"We can do that," Greg said. He scooped a handful water over his chest. "I got chatting to the guy who runs the general goods store... telling me about some thieves who robbed him recently, stole some old ornament of his. He thinks they're holed up in a barrow north of town. He said there's gold in it if, someone gets it back for him. Might be worthwhile."

"Mhm. Tangling with thieves sounds rather dangerous."

Greg grinned, looking round from the tub.

"C'mon, Mycroft," he said. "Promised you'd show me what you can do. And I've got extra reason to impress you now."

Mycroft's eyes glittered. "Perhaps we'll briefly investigate this matter."

"Can't hurt, can it?"

"I suppose we have no other pressing engagement."

"Nope," said Greg, and reached to take the bar of soap that Mycroft offered him. "We can add to those _'Bold Adventures of Mycroft and Gregori'_ you're writing. I reckon hunting down some thieves will work quite nicely, don't you?"

Mycroft smirked, watching as Greg lathered the soap between his hands.

"Could these 'bold adventures' include two nights of unbroken rest, perchance? Before we go barrow-delving after thieves, that is."

Greg cast him a wink. "Read my mind," he said. "Looks like they pay for labour up at the lumber mill. I can earn enough to get us some new clothes."

"Gregori..."

"What?"

"You shouldn't have to - _labour_ to put clothing on my back."

Greg frowned fondly, watching Mycroft as he rinsed off his chest. "Best kind of work," he said, "'honest'. And if I do a few favours around town, it means that when soldiers come looking for a murderer called Gregori, nobody'll think of me."

Mycroft's mouth pulled. He inhaled, relenting. "What can I do to aid us? I insist that I contribute."

"Rub my shoulders when I get in," Greg said, and delighted in the immediate smile it caused. "Rest your ankle. Remember that _you_ saved our bloody lives - and if it weren't for you, I'd be sitting in a prison cart right now. Not in a bath in a safe warm inn."

Mycroft's gaze softened.

"Very well." He stood up from the bed and moved over to the dresser, where a bottle of alto wine was waiting. He poured some into a horn cup. "I'll see if I can find any useful plants around the village. Alchemical ingredients rarely command much of a price, but combined together, the money can be fruitful... I might be able to bolster our supplies."

Greg smiled. "Thanks, Mycroft." He dipped beneath the surface of the water, scrubbing into his hair.

As he emerged, gasping, he found a cup being held for him with patience.

He grinned, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes.

"Too good to me," he said, as he took the cup.

"Not at all," Mycroft murmured. He resumed his seat at the end of the bed. "I'll see if I can arrange another bath tomorrow. You'll be having the hot water first."

"S'fine as it is, beautiful. I feel a thousand times better already."

"How is your room?"

"Small," Greg admitted, glancing at the much larger bed. He noted that Mycroft had proper pillows, too. "Think you scored higher in the sympathy stakes."

Mycroft took a small sip from his cup of wine. "Sleep here," he said. "I'll - feel more comfortable, having you in the same room."

Greg's heart tugged.

"Y-Yeah. Yeah, me too." He took a drink. "What will you do, while I...?"

"Sleep," Mycroft said, with a slight raise of his eyebrow.

"Thought you'd slept already?"

"More is always welcome." Mycroft drank, lowering his eyes into the cup. "In truth, I was - rather waiting for you to be here. I managed to rest for a short while, then began to worry you'd run into difficulty in the few hours we were apart. Been tracked somehow. Harmed."

Greg felt his pulse quicken. "Mycroft..."

Mycroft swirled his wine cup, still looking down.

"I'll sleep better without that concern," he concluded, and drained the rest of his wine. He licked his lower lip. "I'm very glad to be behind a locked door with you."

Greg smiled, understanding entirely. "Can I bother you for a towel?" he asked.

Mycroft's eyes sparkled.

"Of course." He reached for the one now drying over the back of a chair. He approached the bath with it held open, and discreetly averted his eyes.

Smirking, Greg stood up in the water. He treated himself to an idle rub of his neck as he stepped out of the tub and into the towel, his eyes bright.

Mycroft positioned it around him.

"Thank you," he said, watching Mycroft's expression.

Mycroft gave him a wry glance. "You are welcome."

"M'I making you uncomfortable?"

"I believe we've ascertained that you are not."

"We're about to share a bed," Greg warned, his voice gentle. "Not just a blanket under a cart. How many layers of clothing shall I put back on?"

"As it happens," Mycroft said, coolly, even as his eyes glittered like frost in the sunlight, "the proprietress has very kindly loaned me a set of clean nightwear. Your state of dress or undress is therefore irrelevant."

"One layer of linen between us, mm?"

"With the greatest of respect, Gregori, neither of us has had any real sleep in the last thirty hours. There's one thing I believe we'll be doing for the rest of the afternoon. Content yourself that I will still be entirely satisfied by it."

Greg couldn't help but laugh. _The wisdom of age,_ he thought.

"Can't argue with that," he said, and grinned, drying himself on the towel. Mycroft was opening up the wardrobe, removing a clean linen tunic and loose trousers in which to sleep. "You honestly don't mind if I sleep without?"

"I'd much rather you be comfortable," Mycroft said, "than put back on the clothes in which you've travelled for a week."

Greg decided to take him at his word. He pulled the towel from around his hips, draped it back over the chair, and moved naked towards the bed.

As he tugged back the blanket, he found reindeer fur beneath.

_Fuck, yes._

The stuff seemed to melt underneath him. Greg sank back into it, rested his head against the pillow, and felt his entire body breathe out. It was impossible to restrain a groan. Nothing in the world should feel so sinfully soft; it made him glad to be alive.

Mycroft made no comment, busy checking the lock on the door. He drew the shutters across the only window, then in the half-darkness moved to the other side of the bed.

As he untied the strings of his tunic, Greg tried his hardest not to watch.

He didn't manage it. At the first flicker of eye contact, he was lost. Though Mycroft lowered his gaze, colouring a little, he didn't stop. He neither sped up nor slowed down, and simply proceeded with care through the fastenings until the fabric could be drawn neatly over his head, folded and placed in the wardrobe.

He replaced it at once with the linen tunic; he reached beneath its hem, undoing his breaches.

They, too, were folded away into the wardrobe.

Mycroft pulled the sleeping trousers on, closed the wardrobe quietly, and reached for the covers.

As he nestled down into the reindeer fur, Greg caught the visible flicker of relief across his face.

"Good?" he murmured.

Mycroft's cheeks were distinctly pink. "Mm," he said, as he laid back. "It's - rather comfortable, isn't it?"

Greg's heart squeezed.

"Mycroft?" he said.

"Y-Yes?"

"Would it - be alright if I hold you while we sleep?" Greg hesitated, watching Mycroft with care. "We've been through a rough time. Kinda wasn't sure we'd make it to this part."

Mycroft regarded him almost shyly for a moment, his eyes gentle.

He then shifted hopefully across his bed.

As he folded Mycroft into his arms, a wave of peace washed through Greg's chest. He shivered with the rush of it, his heart thumping at the feeling of slender legs wrapping around his own, soft linen and warm skin beneath. He brushed his fingers through Mycroft's hair, and gently kissed his cheek. Mycroft pulled the covers high around their chins.

A softened quiet settled all around; the warmth of _together_ eased through Greg's bones.

"I'm - so pleased," Mycroft whispered. His arms tightened around Greg. Timidly his fingertips stroked Greg's bare back. "I'm so very grateful."

Greg nuzzled into his neck, letting his eyes close at last. "Wish I'd trusted you the moment I met you."

"Y-Yes. Yes, I... feel that, too."

Greg's heart seemed to draw in a breath, happy to its core. "Trust, now?"

"Trust now." Mycroft shivered, placing a gentle kiss upon his neck. "We have plenty of time to build it."

"Mhmm. All the time in the world."

Wonder softened Mycroft's voice. "Greg..."

Tilting his head, Greg stroked his mouth across his lover's lips.

"Mycroft," he whispered against them, and felt Mycroft tremble in his arms.

"S-Sleep well... love." Mycroft smiled shyly, kissing Greg's lips one last time. "I shall see you when you wake."

With a gentle grin, Greg stole one more final kiss. "If you need me in your dreams... just scream."

"I will," Mycroft whispered, nestling into his arms.

Greg waited until he could feel Mycroft sleeping - until the long and easy breaths of a soul at peace were being drawn against his neck.

He then closed his eyes, tightened his arms, and let himself rest.

 

*

 

When Greg awoke, the room around them was in darkness; Mycroft was still safe inside his arms. Voices and the distant song of a fiddle could be heard elsewhere in the tavern, and the smell of roasting meat curled through the air.

As Greg breathed in, contentment coursed through his veins. A lazy shiver followed in its wake.

As Mycroft shivered too, Greg realised he wasn't asleep.

"Sweetheart?" he rumbled, and kissed Mycroft's jaw. The short red beard tickled gently at his lips. _Gods on high. I'm a lucky bastard._ "You alright?"

"Mmhm..." Mycroft returned his kiss. "Rather sleepy..."

"Mm hmm. Me too." Greg stroked his back, long and slow sweeps of his fingertips over the warm linen. Mycroft felt as soft and cosy against his bare skin as the reindeer fur; the thinness of the fabric between them was a little hard to ignore. "Feel better."

"Y-Yes. Much better..." Mycroft heaved a yawn against his shoulder; he stretched as Greg stroked him. "Mhm. That's nice."

Greg continued the slow pattern, idly up and down in time with Mycroft's breath. "Sleep s'more, if you want... we're safe."

"Nnh. Should try to be awake for a short while... lest you and I become nocturnal."

Greg snorted softly.

"Might just wander out there," he murmured, smiling against Mycroft's cheek. "Naked, scratching myself. Get another bowl of stew and stroll back in here."

Mycroft chuckled, sighing. "Quite the treat for the sleepy village of Riverwood."

Greg grinned, nosing down to nuzzle at his ear. "Second time in two days we get ourselves chased out of an inn..."

As he closed his teeth gently on Mycroft's earlobe, Mycroft squirmed in his arms. He made a little sound Greg wouldn't ever quite forget.

"B-Beast," Mycroft chided, slightly breathless; he gripped Greg's shoulder.

Greg felt his heart gently thump. He brushed his tongue over Mycroft's earlobe, taking his time, glorying in the tremble it earned him. "Mm hmm?"

Mycroft's breath caught. His fingers curled tighter at Greg's shoulder. "Mm hmm..."

Greg inhaled, nuzzling his nose in the soft hollow behind Mycroft's ear. "Can I kiss your neck?"

He felt Mycroft swallow.

"I-If you - are prepared to deal with the consequences, yes."

_Gods help me._

_Twenty years._

As he kissed Mycroft's neck, gentle sweeps of his mouth, it felt like only twenty minutes. Mycroft's soft, shy gasps made his stomach squeeze. His throat was warm, and he smelled of soap and reindeer fur - and as Greg turned him tenderly onto his back, Mycroft shuddered and blushed.

"I - I-I'm - s-sensitive there - "

Greg's pulse picked up.

"I know, love," he soothed, and settled on top of Mycroft gently, unsurprised to feel hardness already nuzzling back against his own. He lowered his head, his heart pounding, and ghosted his mouth up the side of Mycroft's neck. "Is this alright?"

"G-Gods..." Mycroft's arms looped nervously around his waist, hands shaking as they rested on his back. "Yes. Yes, I - I like..."

_I like, too._

"F'I just kiss you here for a while?" Greg whispered against his jaw.

Mycroft trembled. "P-Please."

 _Fuck, that's going to slay me._ Greg closed his eyes, dotting gentle kisses all the way to Mycroft's shoulder, then nosed the loose neck of the tunic aside and caressed his mouth over Mycroft's collarbones. Mycroft stirred, breathing in. Greg kissed his way slowly to the other side. As he began to tend to Mycroft's neck again, brushing and stroking with his mouth and his stubble, humming his soft appreciation, Mycroft trembled again and whispered his name.

The sound swirled heat through the pit of Greg's stomach. He found a little place, a little spot at the crook of Mycroft's neck that seemed especially tender to his kisses - and let his teeth sink gently into the soft skin.

The noise Mycroft let out was a moan.

It cut off with embarrassment halfway through, his hands gripping hard.

Greg shivered to the soul.

"Don't you dare," he breathed in Mycroft's ear, and felt Mycroft shake. "Don't you dare keep your sounds. Share them with me."

"Ohh... oh, gods..."

"Please," Greg whispered, and returned his mouth to his favourite new place in the world. He licked the spot gently, soothing it with the stroke of his tongue, savouring the way Mycroft quivered in anticipation beneath him. "You are beautiful," he soothed, and as he bit down again, Mycroft strained beneath him. His hands dug into Greg's shoulders; his body arched against the fur.

Their cocks rubbed through the linen; Mycroft began to pant. Gently Greg sucked to draw the blood to the surface. _Mine. Marked. My beautiful Mycroft, my miracle, my perfect -_

Another little moan, tight - then on Mycroft's next out-breath, much deeper. Greg reached up, coaxed the neck of his tunic aside and kissed his way to a spot on Mycroft's shoulder, licking to wet the skin and tease and soften - then gently, slowly bit down. Mycroft's frantic whimper of enjoyment set his heart ablaze. He struggled gently beneath Greg, his breath breaking, and his hips began to rock in instinct. He wanted friction; he wanted pleasure.

Greg couldn't breathe.

As he sucked at the mark, pinkening it, he shifted his weight to reach beneath the blanket.

He'd forgotten how this felt - the tight, deep intensity of freeing someone else from their clothing. His fingers slipped beneath the waist of Mycroft's trousers; his heart had forgotten how to beat. _Gods, warm - oh - warm, soft - mine._ Mycroft jerked and gasped his name, his hips arching up. Greg helped him to squirm out of the sleep-warm fabric, feeling his heart now struggling to restart itself in rhythm. He pushed Mycroft's tunic up, his breath tightening as he leant down, and Mycroft moaned with almost animal pleasure as Greg licked and kissed at his nipples. Together they pulled him from the tunic, tossed it from the bed and slid together naked, panting, kissing in a soft frenzy as they struggled to cope with so much skin, so much warmth, so close. The rumble of the inn through the door was somehow thickening Greg's breath, enhancing the feelings. The need to stay quiet was excruciating. It made him feel young; he felt free.

"Is this okay?" he breathed in Mycroft's ear, as Mycroft clung onto his back and they nervously settled their swollen cocks together. Mycroft's was leaking, shining at the tip.

"Y-Yes." His face flushed with pleasure as Greg circled them both in a hand, wrapping them up tight. He swiped his thumb through Mycroft's wetness, spreading it over them. "Oh, gods - _yes - "_

"Fuck..." Greg kissed him, shaking, and began to stroke, pulling his fist in rhythm around them both. "Fuck, you're beautiful. I - I need to see you spend, sweetheart. I need to see."

Mycroft's expression tightened; his head dropped back against the pillows. Urgent enjoyment wracked his face.

"D-Do not stop," he whispered. It sounded like a plea. "I - I need - ..."

Greg swallowed hard. "Good?"

"G-Good." Mycroft reached down, wrapping his hand over Greg's. His fingers shook. "Ohh - oh, please - p-please..."

_Gods._

As he built the rhythm Mycroft showed him, slow and tight, Greg felt more slickness well beneath the gentle brushing of his thumb.

Mycroft quivered, whimpering as it spread.

"A-Are you always this wet?" Greg breathed, and watched colour flood his beautiful face.

"Yes - y-yes, I..." Mycroft's eyes flashed into his, afraid. "I hope it's not d-displeasing to you."

Greg's heart nearly erupted.

"Displeasing?" he whispered, gazing into Mycroft's eyes. "I love it - gods, I..."

_Oh, fuck - I want..._

_I want to taste - I want to lick, I want to kiss -_

As he wound his way down Mycroft's body, Mycroft arched against the fur. He let out a gasped stream of blasphemy, higher-pitched as Greg nuzzled into his navel. Low on Mycroft's body, his hair curled prettily; it had a sheen of almost fiery red to it. Greg brushed his nose fondly through the curls, feeling his mouth start to water with Mycroft's scent, male and animal and warm. Mycroft shook, gasping. His hips rocked up.

At last, with a ripple of enjoyment through his stomach, Greg painted a long wet stripe from root to tip of Mycroft's cock. He felt Mycroft twitch, and heard him muffle what sounded like a cry. Longing ached through Greg's soul at once. He lapped through the clear, glistening wetness at the tip, realising that every year of loneliness had been worth it - all worth it, all for this moment. He licked until he couldn't bear the need anymore, desperate to feel something in his mouth, then with a gentle hand guided Mycroft's prick between his lips and over his tongue. Fingers slid into his hair and gripped. Greg moaned low in his throat. Shuddering, he slid back and forth - taking his time to recall how this went. He'd been a young man last time he did it, fumbling with someone else's pleasure. He'd waited twenty years for this chance to come back.

He wanted to make it good.

Being patient was easy. He kept his rhythm slow, his lips wet, his eyes turned up the bed to watch Mycroft shudder and breathe. The look of fogged, feverish enjoyment on his lover's face was all Greg had ever wanted. Mycroft's cock was going to become as familiar as his own. He wanted to learn it. As he worked, Mycroft stroked his hair and whimpered, biting into his lip. He met Greg's eyes whenever he drew back to lick and kiss the tip. After long and lazy minutes, his trembling grew tighter; he kept leaking for Greg's tongue. It was perfect. Thoughts were flashing through Greg's mind like fish through a stream - waking Mycroft each morning like this, every morning, kissing his neck and making him wet, exciting him, hearing him whimper. He could feel his own cock pulsing against the mattress. Even ignoring it felt good. He just wanted to hear Mycroft's sounds a little longer.

At last, Mycroft's fingers were curling and flexing in his hair. The lazy rocking of his hips became timid thrusts, as his body chased its need to release. Greg nuzzled into his groin; shaking, he drew Mycroft deep. He didn't want to stop to say, _this is alright, I want this, I want you to -_ he showed it instead, moaning softly, encouraging Mycroft and letting him thrust.

Mycroft's fingers twisted in Greg's hair; his other hand dug into Greg's shoulder. He was trying not to cry out. Greg could hear him whimpering and gasping, just quieter than the fiddle being played in the bar.

Humming, stroking Mycroft's hipbones with his thumb, Greg bobbed his jaw in quick little motions to meet Mycroft's thrusts. _Like this - like this sweetheart, down my throat, all of it, straight down my throat -_

Mycroft pushed frantically into his mouth; his single desperate cry was lost in the noise of the tavern. Hot fluid gushed over the back of Greg's tongue. He shuddered, swallowing, struggling just a little - _so much - fuck - all for me - spend for me -_ he held onto Mycroft until he'd swallowed every last mouthful, his heart ringing with relief.

The force of it left Mycroft shaking, panting in the quiet.

Greg crawled back up the bed to him.

Mycroft dragged him down to kiss.

Their tongues curled, hearts beating quick and hard. _First time... first time I saw you this way. Taste yourself in my mouth, sweetheart? Taste your own pleasure?_ Mycroft shivered, kissing Greg harder; his fingertips grazed down over Greg's stomach.

Greg felt his muscles quiver in immediate hope. Mycroft hummed against his mouth and smiled, sealing the kiss.

"You are extremely handsome," he whispered, his voice husked. He wrapped Greg's cock in his slender fingers. "And extremely self-sacrificing... and I would very much like to return the favour."

As he started to stroke, Greg shook to the soul.

"Fuck," he whispered. He felt the muscles in his abdomen clench with pleasure. "F-Fuck me up... your voice..."

Mycroft licked at his lower lip. "Mm?" He palmed Greg steady and slow, as if just enjoying the shape of him. His touch was almost silky, breathlessly smooth. "Do you like to be talked to?"

 _Seems that I do._ "S-Sit in my lap," Greg pleaded. "Talk to me. Please."

As Mycroft settled astride his thighs, naked in the darkness, he cradled Greg's torso with one arm. The other hand slipped back down between them, coiled with love around his cock and began to pet him.

"You can't imagine," he murmured in Greg's ear, "how it feels to be bathed in your mouth like that. To be tended to with such care, by a man so wonderful. But I will try to show you."

Greg shook, biting into his lip.

"G-Gods, you - you feel good..." He tightened his arms around Mycroft's back, one hand between his shoulder blades, the other gently cupping his rear. "F-Forgive me - pawing - "

"Paw," Mycroft soothed. He kissed Greg's neck, working his cock in long and lazy tugs that made him want to explode. "Feel me. I am yours."

Greg groaned, pushing up into the decadent stroking. He couldn't speak.

"My body will be your comfort," Mycroft murmured in his ear, and his voice was as soft and silky as the furs. "Every night that you need me, I will lie down with you and stroke you and soothe you. I will turn your every pain into pleasure. I will sate you."

"Oh, fuck - ohh - _fuck_ \- "

"Let me honour you. Let me care for you."

"M-Mycroft - " Mycroft's wrist quickened, his movements deft and light and good. Greg jerked and pulled him closer. _"Gods - "_

"Hold me," Mycroft breathed against his neck. "Cling to me, love. Feel me."

He wet his lips with a flick of his tongue, then brushed it across Greg's earlobe. The wet stroke of sensation was enough to burn Greg's senses into nothing.

"We will find oil," Mycroft whispered, and the rush of longing left Greg as a moan.

"Please - "

"Mm? So we can lay together..." Mycroft caught his earlobe, sucking for a few agonising moments. The pace of his hand never faltered. "So I can lay you down upon this bed," he breathed, "or any bed we share - come into your lap this way - ease you into my body, move on you, let you rest, let you lie back, let you watch me labour for you - "

Greg nearly died. _"Mycroft - "_ he choked out, bucking into his grip.

Mycroft kept on, pleasuring him as he whispered, his hand swift - fast and delicious strokes.

"I want to feel you spend in me," he murmured, and Greg dug his teeth into his lip. "Feel your heat, love - feel your completion - feel you pour into me - paint your chest with my pleasure - find my satisfaction on you, everything I need from you..."

_Oh - h-holy fucking -_

Relief shattered through the gorgeous ache. As the pressure in his groin ruptured into enjoyment, Greg heard his own frantic plea hitch into a cry. Mycroft's mouth caught his own. Greg came, pulsing and shaking, his desperate sounds muffled against Mycroft's mouth.

He could feel Mycroft smiling - drinking his pleasure.

As the pounding eased, and he ebbed from stifled cries to panting, Mycroft gently licked his lips.

"Shhh..." Pleasure raged through Greg's body; his fluid was spattered over Mycroft's chest and stomach. Mycroft's voice stroked through his senses. "Shhh, my darling... shhh... it's all alright..."

Swallowing, Greg forced himself to breathe. "W-Was I...?"

"A little vocal," Mycroft murmured, sounding entirely pleased. "Nothing that should lead to enquiries."

"S-Shit - I'm sorry - "

"Don't be," Mycroft whispered. He softly kissed Greg's lips. Their mouths stroked; a wave of contentment rolled its way through Greg's entire body. "You are - _incredibly_ evocative when making love, Greg."

Greg's heart stretched at its seams. "Y-You're amazing," he breathed, staring into Mycroft's eyes. "You know that, don't you? We are _not_ leaving this room until dawn."

Mycroft chuckled. He pressed the tips of their noses together.

"Mhm... I don't ever wish to leave your arms. Not for a moment."

"You won't," Greg promised him, and began to kiss along the line of his jaw. "My Mycroft... fuck. My beautiful Mycroft."

As he held Mycroft tighter, nuzzling into his neck, his lover squirmed and broke into laughter.

"Gregori - !" he gasped. "Gregori, my hands are - y-you will make a mess of us..."

"We've still got a bath," Greg said, grinning. Joy was leaping in his heart like salmon upstream in the spring. He kissed along Mycroft's collarbones, enjoying their pretty flush, their film of sweat, the salt of his lover's skin. "I'll clean you," he whispered. "I promise. Let me adore you first."

Mycroft swallowed. He shivered as Greg nosed at the pink bites he had left.

"Gods, Greg... Greg, I..." His fingers curled around Greg's shoulders, his chin lifting hopefully for more. "I'm not certain it's normal to feel this happy..."

Greg surrounded Mycroft in his arms, holding him tight.

"We've had our share of unhappy now. Both of us." He kissed his lover's marks in adoration. "This is the beginning of our joy."

 

*

 

_My dearest Nenya,_

_I hope with all my heart this letter reaches you in good health._

_Few days ever pass in which I don't think of you - and so often with guilt for the worry I must have caused. I'm dearly sorry to have left without saying farewell. I know that you of all people will understand the choice that I made. All the same, it was not an easy one. I wish I could have said goodbye._

_Please take my neglect to do so as a sign of my great hope that we will meet again someday - and in far better circumstances than which we parted._

_In the meantime, I wish you well from pastures new. Life treats me very kindly. For fear of this letter falling into hands for which it is unintended, I must be conservative with details - but suffice to say, you shouldn't waste another moment worrying for me._ _I am very happy indeed._

_I believe I will only become more so in time._

_On that subject, please find enclosed an item which I understand belongs to you._

_The person to which you bequeathed it, hoping to secure my safety, wishes you to know I am now in the very safest of hands._

_He thanks you for your kindness to me, and your concern for my welfare - and he returns your ruby necklace with his promise that payment is not needed._

_Until the day we meet again, my dear friend, may the gods be gracious to you. May your endings all reveal themselves to be beginnings - and may your fortunes, good and bad, always be shared._

_With all my affection, good wishes and gratitude,_

_M._

 

**The End**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading _Mara's Mercy_. I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I have. x


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